by Thomas Locke
He saddled his horse and loaded his gear, then filled two more canvas sacks with oats from the byre and headed out. The road south was empty and quiet. At the top of the first rise, he turned and looked back at the slumbering town. The flags hung limp in the still air. Soldiers doused a pair of watch fires. It was a lovely sight, the stone wall colored a delicate rose by the dawn. Hyam wheeled his horse about and headed along the road turned yellow by dust and daylight and disuse.
The first two vales he crossed were filled with scrub pine and undergrowth. He startled a brace of quail that shot into the air, quick as arrows from a hunter’s bow. Hyam met no other travelers, and all the fields he passed were empty as well. He arrived at a spring that watered a host of trees so burdened by ripe fruit their limbs almost touched the ground. Hyam held the animals back, tasted the water, waited, and decided it was both sweet and safe. He refilled the skins and drank until his belly felt distended. He ate two of the apples, cut segments from two more, and fed them to the horse. He stroked the horse’s muzzle and realized aloud, “I have failed to name you.”
The horse responded by searching his hand for more fruit. He cut it into segments and said, “How do you feel about the name Matu? It is the Ashanta word for defender. Does that suit you?”
The horse appeared happy enough, or perhaps merely content with the unexpected gift of apples. Hyam filled his last remaining sack with more fruit, then swung back into the saddle. “Matu, Dama, let us be off.”
The change began just beyond the third rise. The cliffs to either side of the road became razor sharp. The scrub simply vanished. The rock was yellow and polished into odd-flowing designs by eons of lonely wind. The rising heat carried an arid bite. It seemed to Hyam that he could feel the excess moisture rise in shimmering waves from his own body.
By the time they halted for the night, they were parched. The salt froth had dried and caked upon Matu’s flanks. Dama’s constant panting formed a backdrop to their every step. Hyam selected a flat space atop another lonely ridgeline and called a halt. There was no need to pull farther from the road. He had seen no one since leaving the town. He decided against a fire, though a rock outcropping shielded his site from the moaning wind. He fed the horse another pair of apples and two handfuls of oats, then sliced a chunk of cold lamb for Dama and another for himself.
As he watered the animals from a bowl-shaped depression in the rock, Hyam found his mind returning to the questions the Mistress raised. A desert night was an excellent place for reflecting upon impossible mysteries. Such as why the Mistress of a Long Hall would interrupt her day and discuss a failed acolyte’s curious heritage. As he stretched out between the dog and the horse, Hyam wondered if perhaps the old woman had been seeking forgiveness for the way he had been treated. The dog snuffled and laid her snout upon his chest, as though sharing the bitter humor. But no other reason for their conversation came to mind. Even so, not even the Elf king’s command to set such ponderings aside could still his head or reseal his wounds.
When he finally slept, the dreams were more violent still, their power to hold him down seemingly endless. Had the dog not nuzzled him awake, Hyam wondered if he would have managed to survive. For the rest of the night he sat and watched the stars, rubbing the places in his flesh where the talons of three beautiful vixens had cut to the bone.
In the first light of dawn, they headed on. Hyam sent the dog loping ahead, whistling Dama back every time she slipped from view. The next ridge revealed more of the same vista, only hotter and drier.
With each rim and vale, the silence grew ever more intense. When they descended, not even the wind accompanied them. Twice Hyam stopped when Dama pointed toward some shadow and whined. It was an eerie sound, more confused than afraid, and it raised the hair on Hyam’s neck.
The road itself was in fine shape. The surface was ancient brick, worn but well maintained. Whether the brick itself was cut from the yellow stone or merely coated with eons of dust, Hyam could not say. It rose up one steep incline after another in gentle curves, wide enough to hold a merchant’s wagon or caravan. Every now and then the rock face was carved back, forming a space where wagons and animals could gather and allow traffic from the opposite direction to pass. To have such a road be so empty was all the warning Hyam would ever need.
Even so, the cry for help was shockingly unexpected.
Dama gave a swift woof and circled back to stand guard by his mount. The horse jerked to a halt as the cry came again.
“Help, oh please, somebody! I’m hurt, I’m hurt!”
The child’s call was plaintive and piercing. Hyam knew it was a girl, probably not more than six or seven years old. “Where are you?”
“Here! Here! Are you a man or a ghoul?”
“A man.”
“Oh please, please, I’m trapped on the rocks, they hurt me!”
Hyam dismounted and drew his sword. “Who did?”
“The witches!”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t . . . They left with the dawn. Just like they did yesterday. The light . . . Oh please, save me!”
Hyam debated bringing his bow, then decided he needed his arm free to lift the child. He tethered the horse to a rock outcropping, unsheathed his sword, then said to Dama, “Hunt, but stay close.”
The dog moved forward at a crouch, ready to attack. She sniffed and searched and moved one slow step at a time. Hyam followed close behind, searching everywhere.
They rounded a stone, then another. The child’s voice had reduced to a soft, panting keen. Then Dama turned another corner and tensed. For there ahead of them was the girl.
She was dressed in rags and was older than Hyam expected, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. She was stretched spread-eagle upon a smooth rock face. She was also intensely beautiful. Her allure was almost overwhelming, a lovely girl caught at the cusp of womanhood. It was not merely her hair that was golden but her skin as well. Even her blue eyes seemed to glow with a golden light all their own.
She wept with joy at the sight of him. “You came, oh, you came!”
Hyam stepped around the dog and entered the sandy space in front of the rock.
The dog set up a furious racket, but only for a moment, and then went utterly still. Which should have been another call for alarm. But the woman-child’s allure was so potent, Hyam found it impossible to think of anything other than his need to set her free. The closer he came, the greater the draw, until he saw nothing, sensed nothing, except the tugging force that pulled him forward.
Then something struck him from behind, a blow that blinded him and sent him sprawling to his knees.
A voice laughed over him and a different voice said, “I told you the young one works best.”
18
When Hyam came to, powerful hands were forcing his lips apart. “Drink the potion, that’s my strong fine man. No, no, don’t spit it out, else we’ll be forced to punish, won’t we, my sweeties?”
A second voice cried, “Have him tell you why he carries a Milantian blade!”
“Questions will come later, when we’ve started the punishment, and he’ll beg to tell us everything.”
His first semi-clear thought was that he was lashed spread-eagle to a smooth rock face. Then a voice demanded, “Punish him now, save us the bother. Start with the punishment, teach them manners, that’s the way!”
“Nonsense, we don’t want the goods damaged before we have our fun, do we, my sweets. Drink up, that’s it.” When Hyam clamped his teeth shut, a hand strong as iron clenched his nose. “You will drink!”
And he did, in the end. When he opened his mouth to gasp a breath, the hands proved quicker still and jammed the spout between his teeth. A hot gush of something both acrid and sweet spilled down his throat. He gasped and choked and spewed and snorted and struggled, but some went down.
“That’s my sweet good boy. Now you’ll stay with us for all the fun.” The figure stepped back, and his eyes cleared, and he saw before him the three m
ost beautiful women in the world. As they danced and cavorted, Hyam realized he saw the vixens from his worst dreams.
Even so, their allure was almost overpowering. One was the woman-child he had sought to save. The other was somewhat older, yet fresh and beautiful in full flower. The third was a woman of maturing years, who danced with the sweeping power of her full feminine majesty. It was she who spoke.
“You must choose, my darling boy! Which will have you first? That is the last choice you have, the last you shall ever make! So choose wisely!”
“Choose me!” The woman-child swung her hips in a lewd fashion and shrieked her laughter. “I brought him. I trapped him. He’s mine!”
“Choose wisely,” the older woman repeated. “The one you choose will milk you first and longest, then eat your heart when dawn returns. Between then and now we shall all have our fill of you, feasting on your flesh and your spirit both. So take what little pleasure you have left, and choose!”
He was bound to the same rock face as supposedly had held the woman-child. His limbs were lashed tight. His struggles only made the dancing women laugh more loudly still. Beyond them he spotted his dog, and farther back was his horse. Dama and Matu stood frozen. As trapped as he.
“Choose!” the women shrieked. “It’s always more fun when you choose!”
The drug had set his heart to racing. Every nerve ending was buzzing, all his senses were heightened to the utmost and beyond. He felt every fleck of sand in the rock upon which he was strapped, every knot in the binding ropes.
But his senses did not stop there. He felt his mind reaching out, extending, stretching, listening.
And then he sensed it.
A core of power rested inside the cave he could not see. The cavern’s mouth was directly behind the rock. But he was certain the power was there. Waiting. Beckoning.
The middle woman danced up close to his face and peeled back one eyelid. “He did not drink the potion.”
“He drank,” the older woman replied.
“He did not drink enough.”
“Give it time. He’s young, he’s strong. You’ll see. We haven’t had one this fine in weeks. Not since those three knights who carried the king’s edict.” She cackled her delicious glee. “Now dance!”
Hyam’s mind continued to probe until he arrived at what he realized was an orb of power. He touched it and was almost consumed by the force contained within. He drew back, but only a fraction, for he knew the women grew impatient with his silence.
“Make him drink again.”
He tried to draw the power back with him and break his bonds, but failed. Then the older woman jammed the spout between his teeth and held his nose until he drank again. So as he choked and the women shrieked their laughter, Hyam turned his attention to the one who might still free him.
The dog was trapped but alive. Dama fought with all her strength to free herself. Hyam knew this because as he reached forward, he sensed the world through the wolfhound’s eyes.
He saw the women as the dog saw, three reptilian crones whose bodies were streaked and painted with lines of color and fire. Long yellow fangs filled their mouths. Their hands ended in curved talons that still carried the blood of their last prey.
A shadow fell on him, and a voice said, “Does he take it in?”
Only this time, the young woman spoke Milantian.
“You forget yourself,” the older witch hissed.
“I forget nothing! I want him made ready! I want him to choose me now!”
So the three cavorting vixens were Milantians. Which meant any spell they made was designed around the same tongue. He could not break the ropes. But he could perhaps shatter their binding spell.
As he drank, Hyam reached out and tasted the force and the gemstone globe that held it. Soon as the spout was removed, he took a huge breath, drawing in the orb’s power.
He cried in the witches’ tongue, with all the force he had, “Release the wolfhound!”
The sound of the man shouting Milantian shocked the women to stillness. Which was the instant of their undoing.
Dama leapt forward with a snarl Hyam felt in his chest. The women screamed in unison and began spouting spells, but none had a chance to finish even a single word. The wolfhound went for their throats, biting one, clawing another, then downing the youngest with a leap that sent her crashing into the stone beside Hyam. Dama opened her mouth as wide as she could, gripped the screaming woman, and crushed her skull.
The second dose of the witches’ potion left Hyam gasping hard around a wildly hammering heart. “Good dog. Thank you, Dama. Thank you.”
19
The witches’ potion coursed through Hyam’s veins with fiery intensity. He had once held a baby bird in his hands and touched the heart as it raced within the fragile wrapping of flesh. That was how he felt as he waited for Dama to gnaw through the ropes binding him to the stone. His measly sinew and bones were scarcely enough to keep his heart from soaring away, carrying his life with it.
The dog growled as she worried the ropes, careful not to rake his exposed wrists with her fangs. Her claws scraped white streaks in the rock as she tried to dig out the metal clasps holding the lines in place.
Hyam repeated the Milantian words and released the horse from its binding spell. But Matu refused to enter the sandy expanse. The destrier pawed the trail, eager for Hyam to join him away from the bodies.
Finally his left hand came free, then his right. Hyam released his feet, then knelt and received Dama’s rapturous response.
Both beasts clearly wanted to be gone from here. And he agreed. But there was one thing he needed to do first.
He slipped into his clothes and buckled on his sword. He searched frantically until he found his bow and quiver leaning against the back of his prison stone. The cavern’s entrance was directly across from where he stood. Hyam fitted an arrow into place. He half drew the string and searched the dark maw. The smell was vile, but he sensed no life. Danger, however, was everywhere, or so it seemed to his addled mind. He dreaded entering that foul place, but he knew he had no choice. The orb’s draw was stronger now than ever before, more powerful even than the woman-child’s final plea. He shuddered at the recollection and stepped forward. Dama whined and paced about at the entrance, refusing to join him.
The gloom was sparked by whatever bizarre combination of ingredients and spells the witches had put in their brew. His eyes were able to catch and utilize the tiniest light. He moved forward, trying not to breathe more than absolutely necessary. The orb was just ahead, a dozen paces, six, four. He rounded a corner and the putrid odor became so strong he choked. A natural alcove contained an altar fashioned from human bones, upon which rested the orb. The structure was rimmed by skulls. More skulls were set within niches carved from the walls.
He hesitated an instant, then gasped the words, “May I take you?”
The orb responded with a jolt of robust impatience.
Hyam slung the bow over his shoulder and picked up the orb. The weightless globe felt smooth and cool to his grasp. He raced back outside. Dama greeted him with a delighted bark, then tracked him as he rounded the stone and jumped over the bodies and opened the drawstring to one of his canvas feed sacks. He froze for a brief instant, captured by how the orb was colored a putrid milky red. Then Dama barked a second time, and Hyam jerked back to the need to flee.
He cinched the sack shut, leapt into the saddle, took his first deep breath, then shouted with relief as strong as ecstasy, “Ride!”
20
The next valley over was broader and the slope less steep. Which was a very good thing, because the destrier attacked the road at a full gallop. Had the descent been steeper, they might have survived the witches only to plunge to their death. By the time they climbed the next ridgeline, the fear and the panic had diminished enough for Hyam to slow their pace and rise from his clenched position on Matu’s neck. He searched the empty yellow reaches and saw nothing but the late afternoon heat shimm
ering off the lifeless rocks, and the empty blue-black sky, and the fact that he was safe. Safe and alive and able to heave another breath.
He halted at the top of the next ridge and watered both animals. This was the highest of all and revealed a creased yellow world, laid out like a giant plowed field. The sun melted upon the western horizon. Hyam could see both animals were exhausted. But he climbed back into the saddle and pressed on. The brew kept burning through him. He had no idea what would happen when it faded. But he wanted to be well clear of the hills and whatever threat they might still contain before that happened.
They rode into the night. The moon rose and transformed the vista into a world of silver and jagged edges. Hyam’s heightened vision kept scanning the shadows, but he saw nothing.
He stopped again, longer this time, and held the sack of oats so Matu could eat his fill. He forced himself to eat food he did not want, sharing his meat and bread with Dama. He sliced apples taken from the sack not holding the orb, sharing with the destrier. He kept glancing at the other sack slung from the saddle. The real hunger he felt was to touch that smooth surface once more. But he fought against that desire, swung back into the saddle, and pushed on.
He was crossing the empty base of just another vale when he gasped aloud. Both animals instantly tensed. “Steady, friends. All is well.”
And for the first time since entering the desert hills, he truly felt it was so.
Hyam saw nothing save the silver-clad earth. Not even his brew-sharpened eyes could pierce the rock and glimpse what he sensed was there. But as he wheeled his horse about and returned to the point in the empty vale, he was certain beyond doubt that he had found what he had not even been looking for.
He slipped from the saddle. The moment his boots touched the earth, Hyam grew more confident still. A river of power coursed below his feet, buried deep in the earth. A vein within the rock and the soil. One of many. A myriad of arteries that spanned the entire world.