by Simon Hawke
They returned to collecting more fuel for the fire, all the while keeping a wary eye on the countryside around them.
* * *
Sorak had decided not to wait. He would make his move tonight. Three more days at most and Torian would reach Gulg. And the closer he came to his city, the more the odds favored him. Torian had pushed hard to be clear of the barrens by nightfall. He and his mercenaries would be tired, and that worked in Sorak’s favor. However, Torian undoubtedly knew that, too, and so he would expect a rescue attempt.
Sorak’s only chance for success was to perform the rescue in a way that Torian would not expect.
He slipped back slightly and allowed Screech to come forth. Screech never spoke except to beasts. If he knew the language of humans or elves or halflings, he had never given any sign of it. But Screech knew how to communicate with beasts. On the rare occasions when he came forth, he preferred animal company, speaking only to them and never to any of the others in the tribe. Screech was more animal than humanoid, but he possessed the cunning of a halfling. As Sorak gave way to him, not ducking under completely, but sharing consciousness with Screech, their body underwent a subtle change in attitude.
Screech crouched down very low and began moving on all fours, with a flowing, sinuous, cat-like motion. The rocks and boulders of the barrens had given way to desert tableland, rising gradually toward the foothills of the Barrier Mountains, looming in a dramatic silhouette against the night sky. The countryside here consisted of sandy, rocky soil, dotted with desert scrub brush and the occasional small pagafa tree. Here and there, a spreading broom bush or a large barrel cactus offered a place of concealment, but for the most part, it was open country, offering good visibility even in the dim light of the quarter moons. Screech stayed very low, moving with agonizing slowness as he approached the camp, ensuring that their position would not be given away by any swift movements.
A human moving that slowly, in such an uncomfortable position, would have been in acute discomfort from cramped and spasming muscles. His knees would have been sore within moments, and his hands would have been torn and bleeding from being abraded by sand, small rocks, dry thorny twigs, and cactus needles on the desert floor. However, Sorak’s hands were hard and thickly callused, and his knees had built up thick layers of skin from years of crawling through the underbrush. He disregarded the tiny insects that crawled up his arms and legs. Their stinging bites would have maddened a mere human, but Sorak was accustomed to them. Screech was not even aware of the little creatures. His attention was focused entirely on the campfire just ahead.
The two mercenaries had built it up with lots of dry scrub brush, so that it was burning very brightly and illuminating the area all around their camp. Most of the fuel that they were using to start the fire, dry as it was, burned very quickly, which necessitated their steadily feeding the flames. But the desert broom bushes they then added had a high resin content and burned hotter and more slowly. In time, as the heat built up and more broom bushes were thrown upon the blaze, it would burn long with plenty of bright light. The mercenaries were not green to the desert. They were both seasoned campaigners, and they knew the art of desert survival. As Screech approached still closer, he saw where Torian sat under the spreading, twisted, blue-green branches of the small pagafa tree. Ryana was bound tightly to one of its thin, multiple trunks, and the princess was secured to another. Neither of them were moving. The trunks of the pagafa tree were no thicker around than Sorak’s thigh, but they were immensely strong. There was no way that either Ryana or the princess, even if they were not weakened and totally exhausted, would have been able to break free. The three men obviously would sleep in shifts.
Sorak had hoped that two of them would sleep while one kept watch, but he soon saw that Torian was more careful than that. One of the mercenaries stretched out on his bedding roll between the fire and the tree, while his companion remained awake with Torian.
The mercenary that stayed awake paced back and forth to remain alert. Occasionally, he would throw more fuel on the fire, but for the most part, his gaze continually swept the countryside around them, and his hand never strayed from his sword hilt. As he neared, Sorak saw why. The man had fashioned a rawhide thong, attached to his sword hilt, with a loop around his wrist. Any effort to disarm him with the Way would not jerk the sword free from his grasp. These men learned quickly.
Torian remained close to Ryana, between her and the princess, with his back leaning against the tree. His obsidian sword was out and in his lap. With one quick gesture, he could bring it to Ryana’s throat. He sat very still, and Sorak might have thought him asleep. Indeed, perhaps that was what Torian wanted him to think. Instead, the man was wide awake, watching and listening intently. Any attempt to circle behind him and attack from that direction would alert the mercenary, who kept passing that position and watching for just such an eventuality. Any attempt to attack the mercenary first would give Torian plenty of time to threaten Ryana. And it would also give the sleeping man a chance to wake and join the fray. Torian was certainly no fool. However, he had never before been up against a tribe of one.
Screech was now down on his belly, like a snake. He had approached so close that if he rose up to his hands and knees, the mercenary would probably spot him with his excellent night vision, Sorak carefully marked the disposition of the camp and the supplies. The kanks were staked down off to the right, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet away from the tree. The mercenary who walked the perimeter of the camp was armed with a sword and small crossbow, which he carried in one hand, drawn and ready to fire. The sleeping man had a drawn crossbow lying by his side, and he, too, had his sword out, with a thong fastened to it and around his wrist. Torian sat underneath the tree, his legs stretched out before him, one knee bent. He held his sword out in his lap, and his hand rested on a crossbow. He had also rearmed himself with three more daggers. They were not taking any chances.
“Now, Screech,” Sorak said.
Screech flattened out on the ground and closed his eyes as he sent out a psionic call. Moments later, it was picked up. From the area all around Torian’s camp, small, brightly colored critic lizards began to converge on the pagafa tree. They scurried silently up the slender trunks behind the princess and Ryana, without making the slightest sound, and began to chew upon the ropes that held them. Meanwhile, Screech sent out another psionic call.
About a quarter of a mile away, it was picked up by a colony of desert antloids in their warren. The queen responded to the call and, moments later, the workers began to swarm up out of the huge mound that was the entrance to their underground labyrinth. The giant ants streamed across the desert in parallel lines, one after the other, like infantry trooping through a canyon, moving swiftly and purposefully, unerringly guided by the call Screech sent forth.
Ryana was the first to realize that something was happening. Having been knocked senseless by Torian hammering her head against the tree trunk, she regained consciousness slowly and painfully. Her head seemed enshrouded by a fog. She had the feeling that something was crawling over her hands. She tried to move them and found that she could not. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she saw the blurred image of the campfire. Slowly, it came into focus, and she remembered where she was and in what circumstances—recalled how Torian had kicked and battered her. The lingering effects of pain were banished by cold rage. She felt the tree trunk against her back and realized she was bound to it.
She looked to her left and saw Torian seated next to her, his head lolling forward on his chest. He wasn’t quite asleep, but he was close to it. As she watched, he jerked his head up quickly, catching himself, and gazed out beyond the fire. Ryana lowered her head, feigning unconsciousness. Moments later, peeking from barely parted eyelids, she saw Torian’s head loll forward once more. Then she felt something crawling on her hands again. She froze. A snake? She was defenseless. And then she felt one of her bonds give slightly. She twisted her head back as far as she could and saw that the enti
re tree trunk behind her was crawling with brightly colored critic lizards. And they were chewing on her bonds. She looked toward where Korahna was tied up, just beyond where Torian sat, nodding, and saw the tree trunk behind the princess swarming with the lizards, as well. Dozens and dozens of them. And then understanding dawned.
Screech!
If Torian awoke now and turned around, or if the mercenary guard came any closer, either one of them would spot the lizards instantly. But one of the mercenaries slept, while the other was walking back and forth by the fire, peering intently out into the darkness. And Torian was oblivious to the creatures swarming over the tree trunks to either side of him. Ryana felt one of the bonds part. And then another. Slowly, she assisted the lizards by pulling with her hands, careful not to make the slightest sound. She felt one of them crawling up her back and onto her neck, where it started tugging at the gag tied around her mouth. A few moments later, it came free, and she took a deep breath.
Out beyond the campfire, Screech lay flat upon the ground, his ear pressed against the earth. He could now hear the thrumming sound of the approaching antloids. They were coming fast. A few moments more, and their approach would be clearly audible. Sorak knew he would have to move quickly when the time came. He lay still and waited.
Gorak suddenly stopped his pacing, alerted by some sound out in the darkness. Instantly, he scanned the desert beyond the fire for the gleam of lambent eyes, but saw no sign of them. What was it? It was almost like the sound of distant thunder, but not quite. He raised his crossbow and held it ready, his sword dangling from the thong loop around his wrist. It was growing closer now, and louder, a rumbling that sounded like… and suddenly, too late, he realized what it was. His eyes grew wide, and he called out, “Rovik! Lord Torian! Wake up, quickly!”
Rovik was on his feet in an instant, grabbing up his crossbow. “What?” he called out, looking around anxiously. “What is it?”
“Antloids!” Gorak said. “Coming this way!”
At Gorak’s first alarm, Torian jerked his head up, and the first thing he did was check his captives. As he turned to look at the princess, he saw the lizards swarming over the tree trunk and her bonds.
“Gith’s blood!” he swore, leaping to his feet.
In that moment, Ryana pulled free from her bonds, which the lizards had chewed through. Torian lunged at her, but she twisted away and kicked out with her leg as she rolled, sweeping his feet out from under him. As he went down, Torian heard Gorak’s agonized scream.
The first of the giant antloids had come barreling out of the darkness into the firelight, and Gorak only had enough time to loose one bolt from his crossbow. It bounced harmlessly off the creature’s thick exo-skeleton, and then it was on him, closing its huge mandibles around his waist and lifting him high into the air. Gorak’s throat-rending screams echoed through the night as the rest of the antloids swarmed into the camp.
Rovik tried to run, but he knew it was hopeless. Only an elf could outrun a full-grown antloid. Four of the creatures converged on him, and he disappeared, screaming, in a tangle of snapping mandibles. The kanks, panicked by the charging antloids, pulled out their stakes and escaped into the night. The antloids did not pursue them.
Torian regained his feet quickly after Ryana had tripped him up. He lunged for the princess, but Ryana made a dive and tackled him.
As he fell once more, Korahna came to her senses. The first thing she saw were the antloids swarming into the camp. She brought her hands up to her face and screamed, not even realizing in her panic that her hands were free. Then she saw all the lizards swarming over the tree trunk behind her. Several of them were still clinging to her arms. She recoiled from the pagafa tree in horror, flailing with her arms to shake the creatures loose.
Torian wrestled with Ryana, kicking free of her grasp and rolling to his feet, but as he turned to the attack, three antloids lumbered toward him. He retreated, leaving Ryana to the creatures, not realizing they were advancing to protect her. He started to move toward the princess, but two more antloids cut him off. Korahna tried to run, but suddenly found herself surrounded by the huge creatures. She screamed again, but suddenly felt a hand clamp over her mouth.
A familiar voice at her shoulder said, “Do not be afraid. They will not harm you.”
She turned and saw Sorak and threw her arms around him, sobbing gratefully into his chest.
Torian retreated toward the fire, his head jerking to the left and right as he desperately sought an avenue escape. But there was nowhere to run. He was encircled by a ring of antloids. Yet, they did not move in for the kill. They simply stood there in a large circle all around the campfire, surrounding him where he stood, their mandibles making ominous clicking sounds like large sticks being struck together. Only then did Tonan realize his two mercenaries were dead.
He stood there, holding his useless obsidian sword before him, knowing it was a hopeless weapon to use against these creatures. And even if he could succeed in killing one, the others would tear him to pieces. So he stood and waited for the end.
Then, to his stunned surprise, one of the creatures scuttled slightly to one side, and Sorak came into the circle. Behind him were the princess and Ryana. The antloids made no move to harm them. In a flash, Torian understood that, somehow, the elfling could make the creatures do his bidding. Only then did he truly understand what he was up against, and he cursed himself for ever having trailed the elfling to begin with. He had followed his own death, pursuing it, and now it had caught him.
“Damn you for a sorcerer!” Torian swore, as he raised his sword defiantly.
“What good do you think that will do now?” said Sorak, gazing at the weapon.
“More good than you know,” Torian replied. “It will deny you the final victory.” And with that, he quickly turned the sword around, grasping it with both hands, and plunged it deep into his stomach.
Sorak was taken completely unprepared. He simply stared, astonished, as Torian grunted with pain and sank to his knees, transfixed by his own blade, blood bubbling forth between his lips. Ryana caught her breath and Korahna gasped as they both stared at the dying man.
Torian raised his head and gazed at the princess. “You were my undoing,” he said, forcing the words out. “You and my own… ambition. Had you but… accepted me… I would not have mistreated you. But no… you were too good for me. I would have… made you a queen. And I… could have been… a king…”
His eyes glazed over as the light of life left them, and he collapsed onto the ground. Slowly, the antloids dispersed, returning to their warren, leaving Sorak and the two women alone, standing by the fire, looking down at Torian’s corpse.
Sorak looked at Ryana. She smiled at him wearily. Then he turned to the princess and took her arm. “Come, Princess,” he said. “It is over now and there is time to rest. Tomorrow, we shall take you home.”
* * *
From the heights of the foothills of the Barrier Mountains, the barrens stretched out toward the western horizon, a seemingly endless sea of broken rock. The three travelers stood on a promontory, a stone cliff extending like a ship’s prow over the desolate wasteland below. Behind them, trees dotted the slopes, growing thicker as the mountains rose. It seemed almost like an alien environment now.
“Can we really have crossed all that?” Korahna said, looking out from the cliff as the sun slowly set behind them, causing the shadows of the mountains to lengthen on the ground below. It was the first time she seemed animated in three days.
The Ranger had tracked the soldier kanks Torian and his mercenaries had used, and Screech had called them, soothing the frightened creatures. He had given the beasts a chance to graze on the brush gathered by the mercenaries and, when they left the campsite the next morning, their steeds were fresh.
Now, near the end of their long journey, Korahna looked less like a princess than ever. Dressed in various items of apparel taken from the slain mercenaries, she bore a greater resemblance to a female bri
gand than a daughter of the Royal House of Nibenay. The too-large moccasins on her feet were now surmounted by a pair of hide breeches and a sleeveless tunic that had been cut by Sorak so that her waist was exposed. The bottom half of the tunic had been stained with blood and torn by mandibles. There was a wide sword belt at her waist, and Torian’s obsidian blade, which he had used to take his own life. She swore she would always value it for the service it had performed. She wore a brown, hooded cloak over her tunic, and her long blond hair, combed out with her fingers, no longer gleamed the way it had when she brushed it every night before retiring in her tent while with the caravan. Ryana thought, despite the haphazard nature of her costume, that it was nevertheless an improvement over the way she had looked before.
Ryana had held her sleeping form while they rode the kank, and Korahna had whimpered softly in her arms. Ryana had not awakened her. She would dream unpleasant dreams for a while, and it was best she get beyond it. Later, when it was Ryana’s turn to rest, the princess had said nothing, and during the next day and the following one as well, she had remained silent, brooding to herself. Now, finally, a trace of her old self… or perhaps it was a new self… made its appearance.
“We are, perhaps, the first to cross the barrens since the Wanderer did it,” Sorak said. “Or perhaps, I should say the Sage.”
“No, the Wanderer,” Ryana said. “He had not yet become the Sage.”
“I wonder how long ago it was?” Korahna mused aloud.
Ryana shook her head. “No one knows. No one can even remember when The Wanderer’s Journal first appeared.”
“There was a copy of it in the templar library at the palace,” said Korahna. “I must have read it at least a dozen times. It seemed to me, back then, that the Wanderer must have led a wonderful life. Free to roam wherever he chose, to sleep under the stars, to see the entire world, while I was cloistered in the palace, unable even to venture beyond the walls of the compound until I began to sneak out at night in secret. How I longed for the sort of adventures he must have had!”