by James Silke
“Now leave!” she said fretfully. “The first deliveries of girls should arrive by the time you reach En Sakalda, and I’m sick of looking at you.”
Before they were out the door, she was screeching for her servants to bring her her finger-rings and paints. She had to hide her wretched new finger before anyone saw it, and she intended to do it in a manner that would celebrate her regenerated youth, by adorning herself like the goddess of demon lust and creation, Black Veshta. It had been so long since she had even dared to try, and she was just bubbling inside to look expensive and savage.
When her servants arrived, she had her nails redone to match the orchid pink of her cheeks, then did her nipples in the same color. That was certain to take their eyes off her hands.
Twenty-four
SLAVERS
The lean dark muscular nomad stood unseen in the deep shade of a craggy outcropping of red-ochre sandstone, as erect as his spear. His naked body was stained with vermilion mud except for his member and a wide stripe across his face. They were covered with black tattoos, in accordance with his name. He was the slave trader Amadak, the notorious Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle.
He was the darkness that violated the sun-bright sands which formed the desert, the Body of Black Veshta, and his reputation was known to the very tips of its far corners. But he was obliged to defend it daily, because he had named himself.
His expression was ponderously grave, and his pose needlessly majestic for a man no one could see. But if a man was truly horrible, then he was horrible at all times. Consequently, the thin white slits of his desert eyes clearly showed that his mind was actively contemplating magnificently horrific acts of slaughter and sexual depravity, even though what lay before him was a simple job of work.
The outcropping of rock which concealed the slaver thrust bluntly out of a massive sand dune four hundred feet high. At the base of the dune, the sand feathered out onto the wide undulating tongue of flat hard desert that wound between the dunes. The Wadi Staboulle. Hot wind, rushing out of the belly of the desert, was using the narrow depression of the wadi as a road, and sand rode the wind. It glittered like gold in the mid-day sunlight, and slashed and swirled around a huge horse-drawn wagon plodding west.
An oversized, muscled lout wearing a loincloth held the harness of the lead horse with one hand and the leash of a saddled stallion with the other. He was dragging the reluctant animals forward. An older white-haired man, chained to a big-breasted woman, led the other lead horse, and a handsome young man and a girl guided the remaining two. The lout plodded ahead mindlessly, despite the growing threat of a sandstorm. But the others staggered uncertainly and looked about in desperation for some cover to hide within.
The Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle remained motionless, measuring the two female prey as they came closer and closer. When they passed directly below him, he smiled with great significance and, touching his member, belly and mouth, offered up a silent prayer to sacred Black Veshta for the blessing she was bestowing on him.
The women’s plain tunics had been ripped and tom by wind, sand and thorn bush. Only rags and tatters covered their sun-darkened bodies, and his trained desert eyes, even at such a great distance, could see that Bigbreast was at the culmination of womanly beauty and that the girl was at the threshold of perhaps even more wondrous delights of the flesh.
Amadak could not restrain a small smile. Black Veshta’s sandy body was delivering forth two morsels of flesh of uncommon beauty, and delivering them to him at the same time her high priestess had offered great rewards for just such beauty. The timing could not be accidental. The Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle was being rewarded for his hideous acts, and realizing it, his black member came erect, not in anticipation of sensual pleasures or murder, but of gold.
The slaver glanced back through the rocks at the shadows of his men and their camels. They squatted beside their spears, bodies as naked as his, but painted black. They would be ready when the opportune moment arrived. He looked back at the wagon.
The outlanders were coming out of the east. This meant they had not passed a well in two or three days, and had been on the trail for at least five, but probably more. They were undoubtedly lost, as there were no maps of this part of the desert except for the one he carried in his head, and their parched staggering bodies said clearly they were out of water and starving. Weak. They could not withstand his raiders. Nevertheless, the Black Terror waited. In the desert, strength must be used with economy, and soon he would have to exert no more effort than it takes to attach manacles and chains to wrists and ankles.
He looked to the east and watched the black cloud of sand swell, coming faster now, then put his eyes back on the strangers.
Whitehair and Bigbreast had joined the Lout, and were now talking excitedly, gesturing with alarm at the advancing cloud. Lout, dragging the horses forward, ignored them. There was a strange red glow about his face, as if he had a raw rash, but it seemed to flicker. Bigbreast moved in front of him, blocking him, and his arm swept her aside as if she weighed less than the chain binding her to Whitehair. She fell hard, rolled, and the chain dragged Whitehair down on top of her. The pair struggled back to their feet, as Girl ran forward and took hold of Lout’s arm, talking rapidly and pointing back at the dark cloud. The sand was swirling thickly now, pelting them, and Girl flinched and covered her face with an arm. Still Lout pulled forward, and the sandy fingers of the sandstorm reached for the wagon.
The slave trader remained motionless within the concealing rocks. The wind, advancing in bursts, reached up the dune toward him, but he had no fear of it. He knew the ways of the sand, and here the wind was his ally and brother. It would be content to ride the low ground, passing him by. His mind began to wander over his bloody triumphs to while away the time, then again focused on the intruders.
Lout had suddenly stopped, and now he made the horses do the same. This done, Lout slowly faced Girl, his wide back hiding her completely as the others gathered around. A moment passed, and a gust of wind hammered the group, sweeping Girl away from the others. She tumbled across the ground covering her face with her arms and calling faintly, her voice lost in the roaring wind.
Lout dashed after her and plucked her off the ground. He held her close a moment, then, fighting the wind, carried her back to the wagon. There he set her down behind it, and Bigbreast took her in her arms, protecting her. Lout, with the help of Handsome and Whitehair, unharnessed the horses, then single-handedly lifted the wagon and turned it over on its side with a resounding crash that rose above the wind’s roar. He herded the group through one of the vehicle’s windows into the wagon, then led the horses and his stallion to the downwind side of the upturned vehicle, and forced them down behind it, tying them in place. This done, he climbed to the top of the wagon, opened the door, and the full force of the storm hit him and carried him away.
Lout scrambled for control of his body, but was tumbled and tossed further and further away from the wagon. When the momentary fury of the storm abated, he rose uncertainly, and again the dark cloud swept over him, concealing his muscled body.
A long moment passed during which Amadak could not see either man or wagon, and he smiled, certain the storm had finished Lout for him. But then a frown belted his forehead.
The storm was sweeping through the flat gut of desert like a mammoth, writhing reptile made of sand and wind, and within its blackish-yellow body, a small red glow had appeared. It was plodding against the storm’s flow.
Stupefied and mystified, the Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle watched the apparition until it went out, then bowed with solemn respect, just in case it was a god.
When the last flurries of the storm were battering the wagon, the slave trader led his eight men out of their hiding place. They carried long spears, and led camels laden with manacles, chains and carobwood slave sticks. When the last flurry had passed, and sun and silence again commanded the land, the slavers were surrounding the half-buried wagon.
The Black Terror, gathering all his most terrible thoughts behind his eyes, advanced until he faced the overturned roof of the wagon. Taking hold of the trapdoor’s latch, he suddenly opened it and thrust his head inside, intending to petrify those within with the horrific darkness of his countenance.
What he saw inside was a darkness five times his own size with eyes of fire.
The Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle took three hurried steps back, shamefully urinating on his own foot, and the darkness came at him. The idea of spearing it leapt from the slave trader’s brain, but before it reached his arm, the darkness had pinned his arms to his side and was crushing him against the ground. The black mass smelled of sand and fire and smoke. It seemed to be shaped like Lout, but Amadak had no time to investigate. Pain was leading his mind elsewhere.
His armbone was being twisted out of the shoulder socket. His ribs snapped almost rhythmically. Something hairy forced his head back. His neck made a loud crack, and the pain shot into his spine. His head lolled sideways, and his cheek came to rest against pebbles of flint. His throat was filling with something hot and fluid. It spilled into his mouth choking him, and he spit it out. Blood.
Tasting the red wetness, rage and shame and fury welled inside the slave trader like a storm. He tried to rise, starting with his head, but it refused to cooperate. His neck was broken. The realization clouded his mind and vision, and the world went dark.
When consciousness returned, he heard men screaming, and the thunk and slap of metal eating meat and bone. Grunting howls followed, the kind made by his own men. The clang and clatter of chains came, and the hoofbeats of camels. Then his vision cleared, and he saw several dead bodies lying on the ground nearby. They were stained black in his name, and bleeding from ears and mouths. All looked as if some wild animal had been at them. Beyond the bodies, in the distance, his camels raced off without saddles or waterskins.
Silence followed, then a dark shadow moved over him, and a hand took hold of his jaw. It turned the slave trader’s face until he was looking into a snarling sun-darkened face with wide, blunt bones and deep brow. It was Lout. His breathing was loud and harsh. There was a hot glow in his eyes, and his lips and teeth were spattered with blood. Without looking away, Lout shouted something, in a language Amadak did not understand, to someone he could not see.
The sounds of people climbing down from the wagon came to Amadak. The slaver, measuring their different voices as they talked excitedly, counted four. The sounds of scurrying feet came to him, then the Black Terror coughed up blood, and it spilled over Lout’s hand. But he did not remove it.
Lout shouted something in a demanding tone, but Amadak did not understand his language. Then Handsome appeared, squatting beside Lout. He carried one of the Black Terror’s own waterskins and poured the slaver a drink from it, then spoke to him in his own tongue, using a tone that carried no emotion but curiosity.
“In what direction is the river… the Staboulle?”
Amadak proudly kept his words in his mouth. He had served Black Veshta too long to tell a stranger the secrets of her body.
Handsome asked again, and when the Black Terror still remained silent, Lout growled like the cave bear, squeezing his jaw. As he did this, Lout’s eyes turned red and smoked. The Black Terror shuddered with fear and spoke as rapidly as possible.
“There is no river. It is dead! Dry! Gone now for hundreds of years. Only the wadi remains! The Wadi Staboulle.”
“Where?” demanded Handsome.
“Here,” gasped the slaver, spitting blood. “You stand on it.”
Handsome looked around and suddenly smiled. “By Kram, you cutthroat, you’re right! We’ve been traveling up a dry river bed all day and didn’t know it.”
He rose and turned to his unseen companions, talking rapidly in their strange language and pointing off at the dry river banks, and their voices responded excitedly. Amadak coughed up more blood, and this time Lout removed his hand, dropping his head. Then he stood and went away.
The Black Terror listened to the strangers righting their wagon and reharnessing their horses, all the time drinking from his waterskins and talking excitedly. As the sounds of the rolling wagon began to rapidly fade off, he strangled on his own blood and died.
Twenty-five
EN SAKALDA
The wagon bounded and caromed nimbly over the dry river bed, and Cobra hung on to the sideboard and Brown John’s shoulder to keep herself from being bounced out of the driver’s box. The wheels squealed, the wind whipped her, and her chain did a noisy irritating jig on the seat between her and the bukko. But her angularly beautiful face remained reposed as she studied the landscape before them.
The dry river banks on both sides were coming closer and closer as the wagon advanced, forming a funnel that led to a massive mound of black rock some eighty or ninety feet high. At its heights, rays of sun streaked through shadowed columns and crumbling stone walls. At its base, the wadi split in two and moved around opposite sides, indicating this was the spot they were searching for. The junction of the two rivers, the location of the ancient desert skin town, En Sakalda.
Brown John grinned at Cobra and shouted jubilantly, “That has to be it. We’re on our way now!”
She nodded, shouting back, “I wish it wasn’t black.”
“What’s that?” he yelled.
“The rock. It looks like the mound of Black Veshta herself.” She pointed at the soft rounded flanks of the closing river banks. “I feel like we are being sucked up between her legs… to be swallowed.” He laughed. “That, beautiful lady, is not exactly how a man would look at such an eventuality.”
She smiled knowingly and slid close beside him, silencing the chain that linked them. Then she put her mouth close to his ear and spoke loudly. “I have to admit that your optimistic male point of view no longer nauseates me, bukko, but I do not share it.”
His brown eyes glittered youthfully in his wrinkled yet boyish face. “If you think that black doll has cursed us just because I touched it, stop worrying. I once defeated the consort of the Master of Darkness himself, and all I needed was a forked stick.”
She laughed, knowing he referred to her, and put a firm hand on his thigh. “Are you telling me,” she purred like a cat seeking shelter, “that I have nothing to fear… because you are personally going to defend my virtue?”
He arched a white eyebrow, then dipped his head affirmatively with theatrical aplomb.
She laughed again, scolding him with shimmering gold eyes, and said, “You only say that, Brown, because you know I have no virtue left to defend.” Brown John laughed again, lustily whipping the horses forward, and vermilion rose into his blistered cheeks.
Cobra smiled to herself as she watched him. The placement of her hand and her flirtatious humor had been calculated to flatter him and encourage his growing attraction for her. She needed him on her side, and in some way she did not fully understand, she felt the entire group was dependent on him. But despite her calculated flirtations, she could not deny she felt contentment at his touch, and thrilled to his laughter like a girl of twelve. It was as if they were being bound together in some perversely human way, and this she did not understand at all.
When they reached the base of black rock, Gath halted and Brown John reined the wagon up beside him. Robin and Jakar now sat on the roof behind the bukko and Cobra. For a long moment, they all looked about warily without speaking.
The mid-day silence was unyielding, heavy. There was no movement of air, creature or cloud. The dry heat reached beneath fingernail, penetrating mouth, nose and ear, and a torpor filled them as they studied the towering slabs of lava.
They formed a multitude of shadows and hiding places, and each seemed to hold a haunting mystery: the impenetrable shadows, the dark boulders carved like chain-links, the strange, voluptuous columns writhing out of the crest, the road winding in supine invitation up into the black body. Somewhere above at the heart of the mysteries was the trail th
ey hunted, the Way of the Scorpion.
Gath shared an understanding glance with Brown John. He flicked the reins, and the group rode up the narrow road with Gath leading. At the top, they rode past crumbling walls and standing pillars, the ancient rotting edifices of some dead race, then through scattered boulders and up a bald rise. Gath suddenly reined up. Brown John started to do the same, but the Barbarian motioned for him to keep coming. When the wagon crested the rise, the bukko pulled up, and they all stared in silent shock.
On the opposite side of the rise, spread out on the flat ground which had once supported the ancient skin town of En Sakalda, scattered groups of nomadic tribesmen dozed in the mid-day heat under makeshift tents and lean-tos. About the area were stacked cages, half-built slave pens and piles of carobwood slave sticks. Chains and manacles were heaped beside anvils, where dying fires of dried camel dung glowed. Whitish smoke rose from the fires and lay like a vaporous blanket a few feet above the ground. It drifted languorously on the hot still air, making everything appear vague and ethereal. A stack of occupied cages rose out of the middle of the smoke. They held young girls. At the southern side of the camp, where the surrounding rim of boulders cast the most shade, was a large black tent. A banner dangled limply from its highest post. It was black with three red circles.
Cobra stared at it in shock, whispering sharply, “The banner… above the black tent! It is a sign reserved for the personal envoys of the Nymph Queen of Pyram.”
Brown John stifled a gasp. “But according to the map, we’re still a long ways from her territory! What are they doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?”
“It appears they are buying slaves,” she said, her voice tight. “We better ride in and purchase provisions from them… so they won’t become suspicious.”