by Allan Cole
It would have worked just fine too, Palimak thought, if the driver hadn't gone over that bump. And the bottom of the wagon had caught fire. Real fire you could see and smell and which could burn everything up! Palimak was trying to think of a spell to put it out when his grandmother came running from her wagon and beat it to death with a wet broom. Scolding and punishment followed swiftly.
Deep in the gloom of his supply wagon exile, Palimak gave a long, heartfelt sigh. It was so unfair. The more he thought about it, the sadder he became. So sad he thought he might even let himself cry, although he was probably too old for that and if somebody saw him he'd never get to run in the fields and play just like everybody else.
A tear was leaking down his cheek, with more due to follow, when his grandfather opened the back flap and jumped into the wagon.
"If you're not busy, son," his grandfather said, "I could use a little help."
Palimak hastily wiped the tear away and composed himself. "I'm not busy," he said. "What do you want me to do, grandfather?"
"I'm taking over the lead wagon," Khadji said. "We just added a new ox to the team and she's so green she's going to need some watching. I can't mind the road and her at the same time. Not very well, anyway. And I thought I could use a real good pair of eyes to help me."
"I've got real good eyes, grandfather," Palimak said, spreading the lids wide and looking this way and that. "See?"
"You're just the man for the job," his grandfather said and in a few minutes Palimak was ensconced on the seat of the lead wagon, glaring for all he was worth at the worrisome ox.
"Now, I feel much better," his grandfather said, cracking his whip to get the team moving. "No telling what a green animal will get into its head."
"But she's white, grandfather," Palimak said, pointing at the young ox. "Why do you keep saying she's green?"
Khadji buried a smile and pretended to examine the ox, which, as Palimak had said, was white as snow.
"Hmm," he said. "Now that you mention it, she is white. I must have been looking at her in the wrong light. Thanks for pointing that out to me, son. I might have missed it."
Palimak was disappointed. "Then you don't need me to help you watch her anymore?" he said. "Since she's white, I mean. And it's the green ones that give you all the trouble."
"Oh, white's worse," Khadji said. "Much worse than green. Give me a green ox any day, but spare me the white." He gave Palimak a nudge. "You just watch her extra hard," he said. "Now that we know she's white."
Palimak glared at the ox even harder, so hard his eyes started to burn. "Why don't you take a little rest for a minute, son," Khadji said when he noticed the boy blinking fiercely. "I think she'll be all right for a mile or two now that she knows you're along."
The boy relaxed, easing closer to his grandfather and enjoying his company. A long silence followed. It was comfortable at first, but then it extended and expanded, making room for alarming thoughts, like the unfortunate matter of the wagon he'd set on fire. His grandfather stirred and Palimak had the horrible thought that Khadji was about to bring up the subject. Which was just awful. Everything was so peaceful and nice but it was going to be spoiled by another scolding. And maybe other punishment, as well. You could never tell with adults. They were like, like … the white ox, which his grandfather said was worse than even the green ones and you never knew what they'd do next.
By way of preamble his grandfather hawked, then turned and spat into the dust and Palimak knew he was in for it.
"I don't know about you," his grandfather said, "but ever since we took the main track I've been going crazy with boredom."
Palimak gaped in surprise. "Me too!" he said.
"I don't want to dare the gods for more trouble than we already have," his grandfather continued, "but when we were running and hiding all the time at least things were interesting. Sure, we might have been caught by Iraj, but that just made it more exciting. Our minds were always busy thinking up new things, or tricks, or guessing what Iraj might be up to." He glanced at Palimak, smiling. "Right?"
"Right!" Palimak nodded hard for emphasis.
"So here we are on the main track," his grandfather went on, "and they tell us we're making excellent time. Thirty miles a day!" He snorted. "Feels more like a thousand before the day is done."
He shook his head. "Nothing to do and all day to do it in," he said. "It's hard to bear sometimes, I tell you. Very hard to bear."
Another sigh, this one longer. "In fact," he said, "I'm feeling like that right now. Like I can't stand it anymore."
He paused, as if thinking, then, "Here," he said, "take over for a moment, will you?" And he handed Palimak the reins.
The boy was stunned at this display of trust. He straightened up and tried to snap the reins. It came out as a disappointingly slow wave that died before it reached the first oxen, but his grandfather nodded in approval.
"That's the way to do it," he said. "Nice and gentle. A wise driver is careful not to frighten his animals."
Heartened by the praise, Palimak sat taller still. Khadji fumbled in his pocket and took out a small lump of moist clay wrapped in oil cloth.
"Here's what I like to do to keep from getting bored to death," his grandfather said, working the clay between his hands.
Palimak gaped as his grandfather squeezed and pinched, turning out one little figure after the other-a goat, a bear, an ox and even a camel with such a long neck and silly expression on its face that the boy burst out laughing.
"May I try?" he asked.
He'd seen Khadji and sometimes even his father make pots and jars and dishes. All useful things, but dull as mud as far as Palimak was concerned. It'd never occurred to him you could create such interesting figures.
"Why not?" Khadji said. He fished another oil cloth packet from his pocket. "I've been saving this for something special," he said. "So far I haven't thought of anything, but maybe you can."
He traded the reins for the packet and watched from the corner of his eye as Palimak opened it. The boy's face brightened when he saw the unusual color of the clay. Instead of a dull gray it was a lustrous green, so deep that it was almost black when looked at from certain angles.
"It's beautiful!" the boy breathed. He looked up at Khadji. "Can I make anything I want?" he asked.
"Anything at all."
"Of course you can," his grandfather said. "It's yours, now."
Palimak stared at the clay long and hard. Then his face cleared. "I know!" he said. And he started squeezing and molding in the clay.
"What're you thinking of making?" Khadji asked.
"I can't tell you," Palimak said with a sly grin. "But I'll give you a hint. It's a surprise for somebody.
"A really big surprise!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PALIMAK'S REVENGE
Kalasariz moved cautiously through the night forest, keeping a discreet distance between himself and his quarry. His shape changer senses were tuned to their highest pitch and he could smell the sulfurous odor of the witch clinging to the brush lining the narrow trail. It was so powerful it nearly obscured the king's spoor, that mixture of fresh blood and old graves that marked all shape changers.
Behind him, sprawled on a great field, the army slept. Except for a few key sentries-all in the pay of Kalasariz-no one knew the king was out this night.
The spymaster seethed as he followed the king and Old Sheesan through the forest. Unless they were of his own making, Kalasariz detested all mysteries. And this midnight journey certainly fit that definition.
He wasn't as worried about what they were up to as he was at being left out. From the outset he'd given Old Sheesan explicit orders she was report every word and movement the king made when in her presence. This was the main reason he'd introduced the witch to Protarus. He was much more interested in knowing his king's most secret thoughts than he was in finding Safar Timura.
The witch, however, had proven to be cannier than he'd thought and now he was losing contro
l. Old Sheesan's reports had become perfunctory, vague and of little value. She hadn't started outright lying to him yet-other than lies of omission-but he suspected she'd begin soon enough. And then he'd have to go to a great deal of bother and no little danger in getting rid of her.
The forest's edge reared up with no warning and Kalasariz nearly gave himself away as he stepped out onto open ground into the light of the Demon Moon. Hastily, he pulled back and found cover. He stayed quite still for a moment until he was sure no one had noticed him. Then he gently parted some branches and peered out.
Old Sheesan and the king were walking along a narrow strip of barren ground that seemed to be edged by a cliff. The forest was silent so the spymaster could hear the swishing of the witch's robes as she moved and the creak of Protarus' battle harness. They paused at the edge of the cliff. The witch gestured at a point on the ground.
"More magic there," Kalasariz heard her say. "A woman, methinks."
"A witch?" Protarus asked.
"No, she weren't no witch. Somethin' else, for certain. I can't quite put me finger on it."
She turned and pointed back at the forest where Kalasariz was hiding. He was so alarmed he nearly fled.
But then she said, "Both of 'em come through there. Lord Timura was on that horse that's been givin' yer Majesty fits of envy. The woman was on a mare-and that was somethin' special too. Animal magic all over the place."
"Yes, yes," Protarus said, sniffing eagerly at the air. "I can smell it myself!"
The witch chortled. "Soon yer won't need the likes of Old Sheesan to ferret out mischief," she said. "And then where will this poor old granny be?"
"She won't be poor at any rate," Protarus said. "Not after all the gold I've been dumping in her lap."
"Gold's not ever'thin', Majesty," the witch said. "Least that's what they say. Although they leave out the part about exactly what's missin' that gold won't cure."
Kalasariz made a mental note to find out where the witch had hidden all this gold she was talking about.
If he removed her little treasure cache she'd be more dependent on him.
"Anyways," the witch went on, "they came out there and rode up to the cliff where they stopped to palaver awhile. Then Lord Timura went off that way." The witch pointed to the most distant edge of the forest.
"What about the woman?" Protarus asked.
"I don't know," the witch said. "There's no sign of her after that. It's like she rode her mare off the cliff, or somethin'. Whatever she did, she didn't go with Lord Timura."
"Is that all?" Protarus asked, impatient. "When you urged me to go with you tonight you said you'd made a great discovery. Where is it? I see Safar's trail, which we've been following all along, so that's certainly no 'great discovery.' He met a woman! So what? A romantic interlude, I suspect. He's probably tired of Leiria by now and wanted something different. Again, so what? As for the woman's disappearance, if I don't care about the woman, then what do I care what happened to her?"
"Yer got it exactly, Majesty," the witch replied. "A romantic inter-lude! Yes, indeed, that's what Lord Timura was up to." She gave a nasty giggle. "In more ways th'n one, yer old granny suspects."
She gestured wide. "There's lust in the air, that's for certain," she said. "A prancin' stallion and a willin'
mare. A lusty young man and a hot-blooded maid. What could be more natural, like? Then add magic: the man's a wizard, the maid's maybe a witch. Stir the pot well, mixin' in the horse and the mare, both magic too, and we gets us a delicious broth, yer Majesty.
"We're gettin' close to Lord Timura, Majesty. Catch up to him within a week, is Old Sheesan's guess.
And yer needs to be prepared when that time comes, if yer don't mind me sayin'."
"What's to prepare for?" Protarus asked, curt. "I have an army. He only has a few hundred peasants."
"But he's slipped yer grasp afore, Majesty," the witch said. "So he might do it again. More important-how's he gonner fight back? Ferget his soldiers, good or bad. Don't matter. Neither does yer army. We're talkin' about a wizard, here. Most powerful wizard in all Esmir, some say, demons included.
"Why, it's said it was Timura The Wizard that brought down Zanzair, Majesty. And yer had a bigger, meaner army then. And yer weren't a shape-changer, neither, was yer, Majesty? That's how bad he hurt yer, ain't it? Hurt yer real bad he did, this Timura the Wizard and if yer ain't careful, he'll get yer again!"
"And you have a solution, I take it." Protarus said.
"Indeed I do, yer Majesty," she said, lifting up her blind face to him. "I can give yer power over him when yer meets. We can make a spell here and now that'll do it."
"Then cast the spell, woman," Protarus demanded. "Get on with it!"
"That's all I needed to hear, Majesty," the witch cackled. "Yer had to order it, first!"
With that she raised her hands and began to twirl. Around and around, like a slow moving top. In his hiding place, Kalasariz snorted in disgust when he saw her raggedy robes rise up and show her bony knees. Then she went faster, turning still faster, and both Kalasariz and Protarus gaped as she became a blur. The blur began to glow, radiant sparks flying off into the night. Then the witch slowed and the blur took form.
Kalasariz gasped. For instead of an ugly witch there was a wondrous woman standing before Protarus.
She was pleasing of form and face, with long golden hair and a gossamer gown of black that displayed all of her beauty.
The spymaster heard a growl of lust, thought it was his own being voiced, then realized it was Protarus.
The witch laughed, but instead of a harsh cackle it sounded like tinkling bells. "Come to me my sweet,"
she said, voice silky and smooth. "And we shall make such a spell!"
She opened her arms and Protarus gave a great howl and bounded forward to take her.
Kalasariz crept away. Before he'd been angry and worried. Now he was merely frightened. He had to come up with something quickly, before the witch had complete control over the king. What really frightened him was that it might already be too late.
If the spymaster had tarried he would have seen greater reason to fear the witch.
After she had drained Iraj of all his strength, she made herself more beautiful still, curling up to him, whispering poisoned words into his ear.
"You are a mystery to me," she said. "You are so strong, so wise, and yet you allow yourself to be guided by fools."
Iraj stirred. "If you mean my spell brothers," he said, "I don't have any choice."
The witch cuddled closer, pressing her luscious form against Iraj. "Is that what they told you?" she asked.
"That once the Spell of Four was cast, you were locked to them forever?"
Iraj sighed. "Yes," he said. "Forever."
"I can show you how to be free of them," she said. "I can teach you how to break the chains."
Even in lust, Iraj's suspicions were aroused. "Why would you do this?" he asked. "What is it that you expect in return?"
"Only to be your queen, Iraj Protarus," the witch answered. "I have waited a lifetime for one such as you.
I have powers-more power than any witch in all of Esmir. But I want more. You understand what I mean by that, don't you? To want more?"
"Yes," Iraj whispered. "Yes!"
"Together," she said, "we can have it all! Together we will at last be satisfied. But first … we must set you free from the Spell of Four."
Iraj turned to her, eyes bright with hope. "How?" he asked. "Show me!"
"First we have to catch Safar Timura," the witch said. "It would help to have the child, but it isn't absolutely necessary."
"Teach me now!" Iraj demanded. "I don't want to wait!"
The witch giggled. "So impatient!" she said. "Just like that stallion after the mare!"
He tried to take her again, but she avoided his embrace, saying, "First swear to me that you'll make me your queen."
"I swear it," Iraj said huskily. As he spoke he felt a strange sensa
tion burn through his body and knew a magical pact had just been made. This was one promise he'd have to keep.
Sheesan smiled, eyes aglow with victory. "When the time comes to confront Lord Timura," she said, "you must make certain that your Spell Brothers are close by. The casting will not only free you, but kill them, as well as Timura. Do you understand?"
Thrilled at the prospect of all his enemies being destroyed at one blow, Iraj nodded eagerly that he did.
"Go on," he urged. "What's next?"
Laughing, the witch drew Iraj into her arms again and they made even wilder love than before. When they were done she bathed him with cool water from a forest stream. And when Iraj was entirely human-too spent from lovemaking to be overcome by his shape-changer's side-she taught him the spell.
He was amazed at how simple it was.
Leiria watched the horizontal smear of light inch toward her. The smear broadened and deepened as it came, like a slow moving storm creeping along the earth.
"No doubt about it," she said to Safar. "It's Iraj. The way he's going he'll be on to us within a week."
The two were crouched on a hill overlooking a swift moving river crossed by a sturdy bridge wide enough for two large freight wagons to pass with room to spare.