Rise of the Death Dealer

by James Silke

  “Really?” Robin whispered.

  He nodded. “They no longer dwell in Rag Camp. One morning they were just gone. They are what we call followers of the wind. Sometimes they’re like a storm, sometimes like a breeze. But always moving.”

  “It sounds frightening,” Robin said with a shiver. “But wonderful too.”

  “Yes,” Brown John said thoughtfully. He looked off at the water swirling down over rocks, gathering in eddies, turning white as it crashed over logs and boulders. “I miss it,” he sighed, “but I no longer have the temperament for the road.”

  She nodded, waited. Eyes wide and impressed.

  He looked at her. “What others did you like? What skits? The She-Ass! Chums’? The Gelded King?”

  She blushed. “Well… they were funny… but very bold.” She hesitated, then said with a rush of excitement she could not conceal, “There was one story! I’ve seen it every time, The Lizard Song of Ting-Gad!”

  “Ahhh yes,” said Brown John. “And the part which you liked best was, of course, where the lizard turns into the handsome outlaw chief?”

  She blushed.

  Brown John threw back his head and laughed out loud. Just as abruptly, he became subdued and serious. “The transformation is a very difficult piece of stage business to perform. It has a touch of magic to it, but a very, very fragile magic. The performers who play it must be totally involved and dedicated, as well as skilled. Its effect comes a long time after the performance. Sometimes it is years before its subtle power takes hold, and transforms the audience with its dream.”

  Robin leaned forward excitedly. “Is… is that how… how your magic works? It takes that long?”

  “Not always, but sometimes longer. Generations.”

  “But… but, I don’t understand! Everyone says that the only magic a bukko can make is with dancing girls of low character and strong wine, and they laugh when they say it.”

  Brown John chuckled. “Some of that is true, but do not think unkindly of me or my girls. Sometimes they can be as enchanting and profound as The Lizard Song of Ting-Gad.”

  Robin nodded as these new ideas whirled behind her eyes. Then he abruptly changed the subject.

  “Do you truly love your tribe?”

  “Of course,” she said with sudden show of hard pride.

  “Would you try to protect it, if you could?”

  Her eyes became startled. Her voice trembled. “Is… is that why you’re here?”

  He studied her intently. “Yes. I need a messenger… one who will not act… who can not lie.”

  Her teeth took hold of her lower lip.

  “Yes, you. But do you know that soon more Kitzakks will come, and invade the forest?”

  Robin gulped.

  “Listen carefully. You have heard our song of the battle at Lemontree Crossing?”

  She nodded.

  “It is true. The song does not lie.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The defender of the bridge lives in The Shades, a man of incredible strength! And spirit! He, and only he, has the skills and power we must have to defend the forest, but he distrusts all men.”

  “Gath of Baal! The Dark One!” She trembled.

  His head bobbed. “He alone can stand against the Kitzakks, and save the tribes. I do not know if he will, but I know he can. And I can help him do it. But he will not cooperate with me. He does not trust my motives or see the value in my imagination. But you… you understand?”

  She nodded, her breath racing.

  “He must be made to understand the immense size of the danger, of the horror of the Kitzakk chains and cages. And he must be made to understand that they endanger not only the freedom and lives of the forest tribes, but his freedom! His life. Once he knows these things he will realize, as he is a man of keen intelligence, that he can not prevail alone. And that I can help him, provide him with the metal and weapons, and the army, he will need.” He looked off at the river. “I have tried to tell him this but he will not believe me.” He looked back into Robin’s eyes and smiled wisely. “But he will believe you.”

  She grabbed a quick breath, stammered, “But… but how can I find him? And if I did, would… would he listen to me?”

  “He can be summoned. And your beauty, your innocence, and honesty, they are powerful weapons of persuasion. When he finds you helpless and vulnerable in his domain, a place of beasts and demons, and for no other reason than to speak to him, you can not fail but to gain his attention. And hold it. At least for as long as it will take for you to deliver my words.”

  She gasped. “And then?”

  He hesitated, then said flatly. “I do not know.”

  She shuddered, looked off at the flowing river. After a moment, she glanced back over her brown shoulder at him and said weakly, “He’ll hurt me, won’t he?”

  Brown John shifted uncomfortably. “I do not know. I don’t think he will.”

  Her head dropped so all she could see was the rock between her legs. From that position, she asked, “You’re certain he can save my people?”

  Her head lifted. The question glistened in her eyes, but also a tentative commitment. Seeing it, an excited tremor shot through Brown John as he nodded. When he spoke it sounded as if he were the Lord God of Imagination.

  “Child, the extreme, the immeasurable power of this man is beyond, our feeble contemplation. This is a man who can not only overcome the Kitzakks, but become the sword of justice itself. A man, Robin Lakehair, who can be the savior of our land, our people. Who can drive the nightmare from the children’s sleep… and fill their minds with soaring dreams worthy of the dreaming.”

  Her lips trembled.

  He lowered his voice. “The Kitzakks are not the future, child. We are. A time is coming when there will only be masterless men and women. When there will be no barriers across the trails except those placed there by the limits of our imagination.”

  Robin began to glow.

  “Soon, if we dare to make them so, all things will be possible. You and I, at this very moment, can take the first step into an age of adventure, into the childhood of a time made for legends. And he, Gath of Baal, he can be the first to walk them.” Her hands trembled as they held her knees. He placed his hands over hers, held them as he spoke. “But he is a prisoner of his pride. He is caged by it. And you… Robin Lakehair… can open the door of that cage. Set him free.”

  She gasped, “Is… is this truly possible?”

  “You be the judge of that. Have I lied?”

  A rush of feeling left her breathless. Light leapt into her face. There was joyous surrender and resolute commitment in her voice.

  “No.”

  Brown John took her cheeks in his hands, lifted her to face him and looked into her eyes with an honesty that almost hurt saying, “I was right. You, little girl, are the one.” She nodded within his hands, and he continued. “Tomorrow morning, at the third hour, my sons will be waiting for you outside Weaver’s western gate. They will guide you to Calling Rock which is deep within The Shades, but they will not stay with you.” She nodded again. “There is a large blackthorn tree at the top of the rock. Concealed in its hollow is a horn we use to call him. You will blow it three times, two long and one short.”

  Robin, whose eyes had not left his, nodded once more. “Two long and one short.”

  Thirteen

  RED DANCERS

  A distant note, like the cry of an elephant, rose above the sounds of the wind in the trees and the dialogue of the crows and sparrows. Gath, standing in the clear track in front of his root house deep within the southern part of The Shades, heard it clearly.

  His dark brow furrowed and his sweating face lifted slightly, but he did not turn in the direction of the sound. He was busy.

  In front of him Sergeant Yat’s helmet was wedged over the stump of a root. Its wide brim had been hammered off. All that remained was the steel bowl. Attached to it by two bands of Kitzakk steel was his own crude iron mask. The iron was blunt
ed and black. The new steel was grey-blue, bristling with highlights in the afternoon sun.

  Gath looked down at the helmet, spread his feet.

  He was wearing Yat’s forearm guards and chest- and back-plates. Like the helmet they had been hammered to raw steel and refitted to the Barbarian’s thick-muscled chest and back. Holes had been drilled through the sides of the plates, and hide thongs joined them. The plates, being too small, left wide unprotected areas at his sides.

  He edged sideways to get the best angle from which to deliver a blow and test the helmet, then raised the axe high over his head. Determination drew down the sides of his upper lip, making short vertical lines. He struck, putting no more muscle into the blow than would be required to end the careers of three men and a wagon.

  The axe caught the curved steel of the bowl, glanced off, buried itself in the dirt up to the haft. Gath shook from the impact. He rubbed numbed fingers, took hold of the axe and pulled on it. He had to wrestle with it some before the dirt was willing to let go.

  A second distant note came out of the north but quickly lost force, sputtered to silence.

  He glanced to the north, wiped the sweat off his lips with the strip of violet cloth which was now tied around his left wrist. Setting the axe aside, he plucked the helmet off the still-shivering root. The iron bands sprang loose from the bowl and fell to the ground.

  That brought a scowl. He studied the steel bowl, found only a slight dent in it, and a grin replaced the scowl. He picked up his axe. A portion of the axe blade’s cutting edge was flattened, wide enough to reflect a bar of sunshine and a piece of clear blue sky. That brought the scowl back.

  Gath put the helmet back over the stump, repositioned the iron bands. Using the blunt end of the axe like a hammer, he beat the bands down over the steel bowl until their studs locked in small holes rimming the bowl. This done, he sat down beside an uncorked wine jar, slid a thumb through the handle and held it in the cradle of his arm as if it were a girl instead of a piece of cold crockery. His eyes were steady, judgmental, as uncompromising as grey slate. Staring at his new helmet, he lifted the jar to his mouth and poured. Suddenly he lowered the jar.

  The trumpeting sound had come again, a long note. It was now followed by a long wavering note, then by a short one. A stranger was blowing the bullhorn, and knew the signal.

  Gath stared north, then whirled toward a subtle movement at the vine-covered entrance to his root house. It was the wolf, ready to go for a walk.

  An hour later Gath and Sharn spotted the brown boulders of Calling Rock above the treetops. They moved warily to the clearing at the south side and stopped in the concealing shadows.

  Thirty strides across the clearing, beyond Summer Trail, the sheer southern face of Calling Rock rose fifty feet. Creepers and vines fought against fallen rocks and dirt spilling out of crevices to embrace the lower boulders. Above this foliage, the late day sun caressed brown stones with an orange glow. In the gullies, caves, jagged cracks and crevices of the rock were deep shadows, black places of mystery designed for demons and unseen hands to hide. But they were not responsible for the brightness that entered Gath’s eyes.

  A small figure at the top of the rock knelt over a smoking fire at the base of the blackened thorn tree. It looked no more vulnerable than a bite of meat on the end of a fork.

  Frowning, Gath looked around. At the eastern end the rock broke apart in a tangle of massive boulders penetrated by three deep crevices. They zigzagged and grew narrower as they approached the heights. There they vanished among shrubs and thorn trees. Except for an unusual silence there was no sign of anyone hiding among the crevices or within the surrounding forest.

  The man and wolf shared a wondering glance, and looked back up at the figure. It was a girl. She had moved to the thorn tree, and, climbing halfway into its burnt-out shell, came away with the bullhorn. It was as thick as her waist at the bell end. She wrestled with it until she had the bell propped on a branch, then took hold with two hands, inhaled deeply and blew hard. A clear strong note left the horn, and a covey of crows lifted out of the trees to the east to spatter the gold sky with black-winged specks. With resolve, she blew again. The note started strong, then lost force and whined like a lonely dog.

  Gath grinned, then laughed as the girl, gasping for breath, collapsed in a lump against the tree, bringing the horn with her. It banged her knee, escaped from her hands, and defiantly rolled out of reach while the girl held her knee and rocked painfully in place.

  Gath, with his eyes on the girl, stuck his leaf-bladed spear upright in the ground, lifted the waterskin slung on his back along with his axe, and poured a long drink into and over his grinning mouth. The girl glanced at the bullhorn as if it were deliberately picking on her, and he laughed again and choked.

  Sharn looked at him with critical eyes, as if he were suddenly a stranger, then turned to leave. Gath drew in his grin, whispered, “Hey!”

  The wolf looked back at him as if he were as useless as a dead leaf dancing on the wind, then vanished behind shrubbery.

  Gath glared after the wolf, but the amusement was still at play behind his eyes. He ripped his spear out of the ground, glanced down their back trail, then headed for the eastern end of the rock keeping to the forest. Reaching the eastern end, he quietly moved up through one of the crevices to the top. There he found a shadowed recess in the sprawling boulders. From its shadows he peered through shrubs, saw the girl sitting quietly under the tree about thirty strides off.

  She was dressed simply in a bone-colored tunic, a cloak of harvest yellow. Her walking stick rested on the ground beside her. The girl looked like she had neither the will nor the strength to stand. Then she stretched and sat up with renewed vigor, as pleasant and as promising as a budding daffodil.

  Gath found a spot behind some shrubs and watched as the girl placed rocks around her fire, then removed a hen from her shoulder pouch and prepared and cooked it. She drank from her waterskin, dined on the hen, and cleverly made herself a cozy bed of needles between the exposed roots of the thorn tree. When the daylight died, she rebuilt her fire, covered herself with her cloak and a blanket, and lay down to sleep. When sleep did not come to her, he watched her scratch her nose, raise her eyes to the first star in the night sky, then count the needles in her pillow, smelling each one. He watched her get up, pace around the tree, haul the bullhorn back to its hollow, then try to sleep again. This time she drew her knife from its sheath and held it tight in her small fist.

  Gath continued to watch.

  When sleep came to her it was fitful. She twisted, rolled onto her back, arched her soft supple neck, exposed a length of thigh, twisted and rolled again until she was a ball of soft shadows exposing only a pink earlobe, warm, tender and inviting.

  The moon was high in the night sky when Gath emerged from his hiding place. Making no sound, he moved through shadowed boulders, then across to squat beside the sleeping girl.

  She was cradled between the thorn tree’s roots. Her fire glowed with red hot embers at her feet. Greasy stains marked the circle of rocks surrounding the fire. Bits of fat and bones from the hen clung to them. Her leather fire pot, walking stick, belt and pouches, and waterskin rested on the ground beside her. Her knife had fallen half out of her sleeping hand. The fire’s orange glow stroked her sleeping form, and cast deep shadows which hid her face.

  Gath inspected her walking stick and knife. He opened her pouches. One carried several tiny corked vials of stone and clay, and smaller pouches holding pungent herbs. Another held an apple, raisins and the remains of the roasted hen wrapped in a cloth. The third held coins, and a small, wooden spinning whorl painted gold. This he knew. It was the sacred sign of the Cytherian maidens who wove cloth in the temple at Weaver. Gath set her belt and its pouches back beside the girl and started to rise.

  The girl shifted restlessly, and her small red mouth with its plump lower lip emerged from the concealing shadow. She yawned slightly, and the vermilion flesh of her lips glisten
ed wetly in the fire’s glow. Then she sighed in musical surrender, the prisoner of a sleep fashioned by dreams.

  Gath’s eyes warmed within the deep shadows of his brow. The brutal glint was gone. The pupils were large and brilliant reflecting the fire. The eyes of a hard, savage man, but one who refused to forget his childhood, a time which had held a dream distant and supreme, like those clung to only by boys raised in cages.

  The girl’s lips massaged themselves, then a pink tongue emerged and tickled a corner until it glistened wetly. The lips closed and, to the accompaniment of another soft sigh, danced back into the darkness and were gone.

  Gath unconsciously lifted his spear and scratched his knee with the haft. He took a breath, waited. When the two red dancers failed to reappear, he reached with the spear tip, caught the blanket with it and lifted it away from Robin Lakehair’s face so the orange glow of the dying fire could stroke it with moving color.

  As her beauty knifed into him, he did not turn away or move. Then he lowered the blanket and took a step backward out of the firelight.

  He glanced about furtively, suddenly aware again of the night and its sounds: the crickets’ song, the hoot of an owl, the scattering feet of nocturnal lizards. He looked back at the sleeping girl.

  The soft rise and fall of her shadowed form had a subtle, compelling strength, a power which stretched time, proportion, size. It was as if her lips were a perch where a soldier could stand guard, her red-gold hair ropes to climb, the upper slope of her breasts rising and falling above her square-cut collar a place to lie down and sleep. As if she were an inviting landscape where gods rode on white chargers, and goddesses wearing chains and luxurious virtue were held captive in the towers of shadowy castles.