by Allan Cole
Talane became agitated. But not over the delay. "Oh, but you must not come, lord!" he said. "The Oracle warned us you would want to, but she said you must stay away at all costs."
Safar's eyebrows shot up. "Why is that?"
The priest made a weary shrug. "She didn't say. Oracles aren't always that forthcoming, you know. But she was most insistent. She said you shouldn't come until the machine is stopped."
Safar was mightily confused. "I don't understand," he said. "You want my help, yet at the same time you say I'm barred from giving it. What other way can we halt that wheel?"
Talane took a deep breath, then, "By changing the course of the rivers that drive it."
The rescue project Caluz proposed was not only costly, but an enormous engineering feat. Two rivers had to be forced to leave their natural beds and find a new course to the sea. Safar spent many hours with the priest, who came armed with facts and figures and memorized plans that he sketched on scraps of paper as he talked. In the end Safar was convinced it could be done.
Several weeks later Talane departed for Caluz with royal promissory notes and decrees calling on neighboring cities to provide all necessary assistance. Safar and the priest said their final farewells at the main gate. Outside the walls they could hear the caravan master cry his last warning that he was ready to depart.
"There's one other thing I should tell you, my lord," Talane said. "Forgive me for withholding it, but I wasn't clear on the Oracle's meaning. I was already ladened with so many confusing things to relate to you that I feared it would only make explanations more difficult."
"Tell me now then, holy one," Safar said.
"The Oracle said to tell you this: 'He who seeks the way to Hadin must first travel through Caluz.'"
Talane scratched his head. "It still doesn't make any sense to me, lord," he said. "Do you know what she means?"
Safar shook his head. "No. But I hope to find out one day."
Palimak stirred in his lap and Safar looked down to see if the boy had wearied of his story. Instead, Palimak's eyes were huge and glowing with interest.
"Imagine that!" he said. "Making two whole rivers change which way they go." Outside a volcano rumbled with pent up gases and his elfin face turned serious. "I guess it didn't work," he said. "The machine's still going."
"Actually, it did work," Safar said. "They labored for several years building dams and digging an alternate bed for both rivers to flow into. The wheel stopped and the bad magic with it. The people of Caluz sent me many proclamations of thanks and praise. I even had a note from Talane saying the city was going to honor me by naming a day after me. I don't know if they did, because not much later I was fleeing Zanzair with you and Leiria. And I haven't heard anything since."
"Something must have happened, father," Palimak said, "because the machine's going again."
"Apparently," Safar said, "all that work turned out to be just a temporary fix. We'll find out what happened when we get to Caluz."
Palimak was alarmed. "But what about the Oracle's warning?" he asked. "If the wheel's going, you might get hurt. Or even … you know … killed or something!"
Ever since Asper's ghost had bade him to travel to Caluz Safar had considered that point himself. But he smiled at the boy, saying, "Don't worry. I know a lot more about such things then I did in Zanzair. A wizard gets stronger as he ages. Why, think about how much more powerful you are now then when we left Kyrania. You've made storms from small clouds, saving my life, I might add.
"And that trick you played on Iraj was masterful. It gave us valuable time to get away."
Palimak frowned. "That's what everybody says. And I guess maybe I'm a hero, like I wanted to be.
They're all saying, 'Oh, Palimak, you're such a brave boy! And 'How can we ever thank you enough.'
Things like that. But, I don't know. I don't feel very good about it."
He gave Safar a look of great frustration. "I was trying to kill him, father!" he said. "That's how it was supposed to work. But it didn't. It was sort of like the rivers. A temporary fix."
Safar ruffled his hair. "That's all we needed," he said. "So it doesn't matter."
Actually it did matter to Safar, but not the way Palimak might have thought. He was secretly glad the boy had failed. Evil as Iraj might be, Safar thought his murder would be too much for a child's soul to bear.
There would be plenty of opportunity in the years ahead for such scars to accumulate.
"Will you let me help you in Caluz, father?" Palimak asked. "I'm really strong, just like you said. See?"
He flexed one of his little arms by way of demonstration. Safar smiled and felt the small lump of muscle.
To his surprise it was hard and sinewy and quite unchildlike.
"You certainly are," Safar said. "I was nowhere near as strong when I was your age."
Palimak shrugged as if indifferent but he was secretly pleased. "I think it's because I'm part demon," he said matter of factly. "They get stronger faster, right?"
"Right," Safar answered.
"Stronger in magic, too, right?"
"Right."
Palimak's face turned sly. "Then you'll let me help you, right?"
"Right again," Safar said.
The boy looked startled. Had his trick worked? Then he became concerned.
"Do you really mean that, father?" he asked. "Or are you just saying it and then you'll make up a reason later why I can't?"
"Yes, I really do meant it, son," Safar said. "To tell the truth, I was sort of counting on it. That's why I told you the story, so you'd be ready when we got there."
Palimak's face lit up with supreme pleasure. "Will it be dangerous?" he asked.
Safar turned serious. "Very dangerous, son. So you have to pay close attention to everything I say. No more little tricks and experiments on your own, right?"
"Right!" Palimak said. "Right, right, right. And three times right makes it so!"
Sergeant Dario eyed the road ahead. The old Kyranian fighting master was not pleased with what he saw, or actually, what he couldn't see. They'd been traveling for weeks on the barren plains of the Black Lands, but as forbidding as they were, he thought, at least a man had an uninterrupted view of any danger he might face.
Here, however, the great caravan road narrowed to accommodate a passage hewn straight through a mountain. Dario figured it had once been a natural ravine which was widened by gangs of slaves working for some greedy king determined to bring the caravans to his realm.
Whatever the origins, Dario definitely didn't like the way the road snaked into the dim passage, then vanished entirely beyond the first bend.
"If I was thinkin' of settin' up an ambush," he said to Leiria, "I'd pick somewhere's in there. You could trap the whole damn caravan."
"I was thinking the same thing," she replied. She looked up at the towering, blank-faced mountain. "I wish there were a route around it, or over it," she said.
Dario leaned away from his saddle and spit, which Leiria had learned over many miles was a signal that he was thinking. His leathery old face, which drooped like a jowly dog's, was a permanent, emotionless mask he kept for the world. But Leiria could see a glint of worry in his eyes as they darted this way and that, probing the depths of the passage.
Finally he settled back in his saddle. "Had a cap'n once't," he said, "who knew all there was to know
'bout ambushes, 'cept for one thing. And that killed him so I never did find out what he was missin'.
Make a long story short, he taught me what he know'd afore he ate that arrow, so I'm a pretty fair hand at ambushes."
Leiria laughed. "Except for the kind that got the captain," she said.
Dario grimaced, which was his way of smiling. "Hells," he said, "there's always one more for a soldier.
One more hill to climb. One more meal you ain't gonna eat. One more sword lookin' for your guts. Same with ambushes. There's always one more waitin' somewhere's that's gonna get you."
Leiria laughed. "Isn't that the truth! What's the old barracks' saying? No matter how bad the shit gets, it's only the second worst thing that's going to happen to you."
Dario grunted his enjoyment. Then he gestured at the pass, saying, "Why'nt I slip on in there, Cap'n, and see what's what? Maybe you could sorta linger a bit behind me to guard my back."
Leiria nodded agreement. "Wait up a minute," she said, "until I talk to the boys."
She trotted back to where the other scouts, including Renor and his friend, Seth, waited. She told them the plan and then said, "In all likelihood we're worrying about nothing. But if we should trigger an ambush the last thing I want is for any of you to come running to our rescue. Leave one man here to watch and the rest of you ride to the main column for help. Renor, you're in charge, so you choose who's going to stay and who's going to ride. Got it?"
"Yes, Captain," Renor said, squaring his shoulders as if suddenly feeling the weight of command settle on to them. "But, how about if I send somebody back now, so Lord Timura and the others will know what's going on up here?"
"Good idea," Leiria said, feeling a flash of pride at how far Renor had come since Kyrania. He was going to make one fine soldier someday-assuming he lived long enough. "In fact, instead of waiting to see if we need help, ask Lord Timura to send up a platoon now just in case."
She rode back to the pass where Dario was stripping himself and his horse of all unnecessary weight.
She did the same, then they helped each other tie rags around their horse's hooves to muffle the sound.
When they were ready she nodded at Dario to proceed.
The sergeant grimaced a smile. "If somethin' happens," he said, "tell my old woman to put a jug out for my ghost tonight. Way I hear it, dyin's damned thirsty work."
And then he rode into the pass.
She waited until he reached the first bend. At his signal she moved slowly forward. Dario took up temporary position at the bend, keeping watch in both directions until she reached him. While she stood guard he moved to the next point, scanning the high walls of the canyon for any movement.
They leapfrogged like that, going deeper and deeper until the light became so dim that all was in shadow and they relied on hearing and instinct more than sight. The high canyon walls were old and rotting, showing dark wounds where they had given away to tumble down onto the road.
There was no wind and the air was hot and stale. Sound was intensified, almost unnatural; the horse's muffled hooves seemed like distant drums, their breathing harsh and gasping like a dying beast's, and once in awhile some far off landslide would break, sounding like slow rolling thunder.
Sweat trickled down Leiria's back, increasing the prickling sensation she'd experienced after passing the first bend. She felt as if she were being watched, a sensation she'd normally heed. But the atmosphere was so bleak she thought it might be her imagination. Adding to her wariness was the fact that there was simply nowhere for anyone to hide-no perches on the faces of the cliffs, no rubble so dense or high enough to provide cover. Each section of road they cleared should remain cleared. It was only common sense.
Then she saw Dario signal frantically. She halted the horse and swiftly fit an arrow into her bow.
Dario held his hand, keeping her in position. She saw him lean forward, as if listening.
Then she heard it-the heavy, measured tread of many boots. Dario reined his horse back, quickly slipping an ax from his belt. He came slowly, eyes forward, listening to the tromp, tromp, tromp of the approaching boots.
Suddenly, from behind her she heard the same measured tread. Leiria came about, heart hammering at this impossibility. She lifted her bow, staring at the bend, waiting for the first face to show.
The boots came closer, moving in from both sides as if closing some gigantic pincer with Dario and Leiria in between.
She sensed Dario at her side and they moved together, the noses of their horses pointing in opposite directions.
The sound of marching boots grew louder and louder until they were like kettle drums. Then a great horn blew, the boots went stamp … stamp … stamp … three times, hard on the last, and stopped.
Silence.
Then the air shimmered and out of all that nothingness appeared a long column of huge, mailed warriors.
Their skin was white as death, lips blood red, and their eyes were great empty sockets as black and deep as caves.
Leiria took a chance and glanced behind her. And her eyes confirmed what mind and heart knew.
The pincers had closed.
They were surrounded.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE ROAD TO CALUZ
Lord Fari watched with mild amusement as the soldiers tormented the two prisoners. A man and a woman, both stripped naked, were staggering between two ranks of cheering warriors. One side was human, the other demon, and they were hurling rocks and sticks at the couple, trying to drive them toward one group of soldiers or the other.
The game would go on like this, with some interesting variations, until the prisoners had been ripped to pieces. Then those pieces would be used in stirring games of fiendish polo, pitting mounted demon and human teams against one another as they whacked gory parts about the field with clubs made of bone.
It was all great innocent fun, Fari thought, and he was pleased to see the young soldiers engaged in such vigorous, morale-building activity.
The woman fell a few feet from the demon side and long talons reached for her. She screamed, dragging herself away, long trails of blood raking along one thigh where they'd caught her. The soldiers roared laughter, giving the woman time to stagger to the middle of the wide gap between the ranks of tormentors. They howled louder still when she fell next to the man and he embraced her with bleedings arms trying to comfort her.
"Oh, good show! Good show!" Fari cried, rapping his skull-topped cane against the ground. Beneath him, a husky demon slave shifted patiently under Fari's bulk, alert to his lord and master's every movement.
There was a lull in the game as wineskins were passed about to slake all that happy thirst and Fari sent a runner with a bag of gold to add to the stakes and the excitement.
The rough playing field was set up on the edge of the Black Lands where Iraj had camped his army while he considered his next move. Fari frowned, absently reaching out a taloned hand-instantly filled with a cup of wine by a demon maid who was as comely as she was attentive.
Actually, time for consideration had little to do with the king's planning. Protarus was in one of his moods again, so black no one dared come near him except his slaves and they had no choice in the matter. He'd already killed more than a dozen for infractions so small even Fari was startled. Lord Fari was known to have hard views about spoiling slaves. He even approved of the occasional act of casual violence to keep them anxious to please. Besides, a slave on a gibbet in front of your house was a good thing for an enemy to see when he came to visit.
There was no similar artifice in Iraj Protarus' actions, however. He didn't even kill them out of anger, Fari noticed. It was more like a fly had been buzzing about, interrupting his melancholia. It was a melancholy so deep and so dark the king seemed to find a strange comfort and escape in it, as if sorrow were a thick, warm coverlet he drew over him to blot out the world. Then came the buzz of the fly-a smile when he didn't want to see a smile, a solemn face when he wanted a smile-and he would flick it away. Claws erupting from his hands, snatching out a throat, then becoming hands again as the king returned to his thinking, eyes only blinking when the body struck the floor.
Protarus had been like that since the attempt on his life by the boy, Palimak. Fari scratched his horn with a long, contemplative talon. It had been a very good spell, he thought. One that even he, a master wizard, could admire. The only error the child had committed when he'd composed the spell was to leave a link between the giver of the amulet and the taker. So when the king spoke the word "Palimak" aloud, triggering the spell, it was the witch who took most
of the killing force, not the king.
The king had suffered enough physical harm to delay the march for several weeks while his wounds healed. He'd been left with only one scar no magical treatment could erase, even when applied to the self-healing body of a shape changer. It was a small scar that lifted one corner of his lip into a permanent smile. It wasn't a sneer or a grin, but a sly tilt that made you wonder if he knew some secret that did not bode well for you.
As time went by it soon became apparent the king had suffered a deeper wound. Without warning, he'd suddenly fall into a black mood and call the army to a halt, only to retire the into the depths of his harem.
When the mood ended he'd suddenly rise up and order the march to resume, cursing at the delay as if it were the fault of others.
The consequence was that they were far behind Safar Timura and his refugee caravan. So far the magical trail they were following was very weak and would soon fade out entirely. And Lord Timura would have eluded them once again-possibly for all time. The forced hunt could only go on for so long. Eventually, either all the supplies would be exhausted or the kingdom would become so neglected Protarus would have to pause to put things in order.
For the first time since the hunt began, Lord Fari didn't care. It didn't matter to him if they won or lost the race. He had different goals now. Goals which only coincidentally involved Safar Timura. In short, Lord Fari had a new view on things, a new way of thinking. Shorter still, he was thinking only of himself.
The game resumed with a blood-curdling scream as a rock struck the male captive. Fari glanced up, red demon's tongue flicking out at the prospect of renewed amusement. This time, however, he found himself bored. The man and the woman were barely conscious, so there was little sport. Fari snorted. The youth of today, he thought, have even less patience than they have imagination. Some other torments should have been used well before now. The trick was to keep the game alive and interested as long as you could.