The Devil's Armor

by John Marco

  “I’m trying. Just stand still.”

  “This might be a good time for me to vanish.”

  “Don’t you leave me!”

  The nearest adult gave a long, rumbling hiss. The frightful sound staggered Gilwyn’s concentration. He struggled to reconnect with the beast, forcing all his mind against her.

  No! he demanded. No harm . . . no harm . . .

  The mother kreel relaxed, letting Gilwyn run his fingers over her mind. He told her everything he had told the youngsters, then told the other adults, too. Behind him, the young kreels gathered anxiously, loudly grunting for his attention. Ghost laughed in disbelief.

  “Look at you! You’re like a mother hen!”

  Let us pass, Gilwyn begged the adults. Your children are free now.

  Remarkably, the giants understood. One by one they moved aside, calling out to their young as if in farewell. Gilwyn had never seen the likes of it. The heartbreaking sound seemed almost human. Reaching back out to the youngsters, Gilwyn drew them closer, until they lined up behind him like soldiers. Emerald rushed up to stand in front of him, ready to lead the way.

  Thank you, said Gilwyn to the adults. He was not really sure they knew what would happen to their offspring, yet they no longer blocked his way. They felt calm. Perhaps because he could speak to them, they trusted Gilwyn.

  “Ghost, get your drowa,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  The albino wasted no time. He darted quickly past the adults to where his drowa waited. When he was safely away, Gilwyn stepped forward, letting Emerald lead him through the wall of reptiles. Behind him, the lines of young kreels followed excitedly, clicking and chattering as their parents watched them go.

  29

  CITY BY THE SANDS

  Four days after leaving Dreel, Lorn and the Believers arrived at last in Ganjor. It was a welcome event to all of them, and the city’s magnificence sent Lorn’s senses soaring. In Norvor, it was well known that Ganjor was a peerless metropolis, a grand stew of cultures both north and south and a crossroads of commerce. Lorn had seen drawings of it in books. Still, he was ill-prepared for the greatness of the place, dotted with minarets and backed by a gleaming desert of white sand that made all the colors of Ganjor come alive like wet paint. Streets teeming with merchants and peasants and livestock crisscrossed like a game board, while high above the frenzy rose temple spires and great, ivory towers. Ancient city walls of ruddy clay stood as high as houses in places, or lay broken in crumbling mounds in other spots, baked raw by a sun that never seemed to darken. Horses and oxen and donkeys milled along the avenues, the burdened beasts of great trains of traders, their wagons filled with wares to sell in Ganjor’s bazaars. And with these creatures were other beasts, magnificent mythological-looking reptiles ridden by men in flowing robes. As Lorn’s desperate caravan entered the city, he and the others gaped at the monsters.

  “What in all the hells is that?” asked Garthel. His rheumy eyes stared at the beast as he rode beside Benzerak in the lead wagon.

  “What?” asked the young blind man at once. Quickly he swiveled his head to take in every strange sound. “What are you seeing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lorn. As usual he was walking, guiding their donkey by its bridle. The reptile and its rider were a good distance away. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s a lizard,” said Eiriann. “They ride lizards here?”

  Garthel shrugged. “I suppose. You see, daughter? There’s magic here, and we’re not even in Mount Believer yet.”

  Lorn and the rest of them slackened their pace, too stunned by the city’s sights to pass them up quickly. Seeing the man on the lizard gave him some hope, for it was an unimaginably strange sight—the kind of thing one might indeed call magic. It seemed there were men of every race here, some dressed in familiar northern garb, others in the flowing robes of the desert kingdoms. And then there were the women, too easy to recognize in their strange, all-covering gowns, their faces barely visible as they walked the sandy, thoroughfares. The sight of them made Eiriann wince, and from her place in the wagon she gave Lorn a disapproving scowl.

  “Is that what it’s like for women in Norvor?” she asked.

  Lorn hesitated. He knew nothing of Ganjor, or its customs toward women. “The ladies of Norvor aren’t slaves, no matter what you might have heard.”

  “But there’s a proper place for them in Norvor, is that not so?” Eiriann looked around the streets in disgust. “I hope Mount Believer is better than this place.”

  To Lorn, the status of the Ganjeese women mattered little. He hadn’t come to free them or argue over customs, and he already thought Ganjor a good bit better than Dreel, with its decaying stink and outrageous tolls. He and his companions had paid nothing at all to enter Ganjor, riding through one of the many holes in the city walls with barely a glance. Nor had they encountered any towns on the rest of the way south, or spent any of the coins Lorn had stolen from Duke Erlik. That meant they had money enough to buy shelter for the night—maybe more than one night—and the thought of soft beds had them all wearing smiles.

  Admittedly, though, Lorn didn’t know where to go. He was not only a stranger in Ganjor, but Ganjor itself was strange, and he saw nothing as familiar as an inn or boarding house. The Ganjeese architecture looked wholly unlike the structures up north. The buildings were rounder here, softer, with gently sweeping curves and archways and complicated roofs made of limestone slabs set at impossible angles. Worse, any writing over the doors was in Ganjeese, a peculiar alphabet of slashes and dots. Feeling lost, Lorn looked about for anything helpful. Since there were other northerners in the city, he decided he’d better ask for assistance. Still, his close call in Dreel made him circumspect. Just how far had word of his journey reached? Jazana Carr might have assassins of her own after him now.

  “We need to find a place to rest,” he told his group. “At least get out of this sun.”

  Garthel wiped a hand over his wrinkled brow. “Yes,” he agreed, looking, like the rest of the Believers, completely depleted from the journey.

  Lorn surveyed the busy street. Like a mirage from the desert, a man headed toward them, beelining for their caravan amid the crowds of people. Lorn stared at him, unsure why he was approaching and paranoid about his motives. He was clearly Ganjeese, with dark skin like tanned leather and white robes that covered his entire body. Even his head was wrapped in cloth, but his face was clearly visible, punctuated with a sharp, black beard. Neither young nor old, Lorn couldn’t gauge the man’s age, but his purposeful stride filled him with caution.

  “Everyone, look,” he warned, gesturing toward the man with his chin. “Be on guard.”

  Unlike the soldiers who’d come to them in Dreel, this stranger seemed unarmed. He came at them furtively, too, occasionally looking over his shoulder. His dark eyes darted about as if he feared being followed. Everything about his manner told Lorn he was no assassin. Still, the old king was vigilant.

  “Greetings, friends,” said the man as he approached. He put his hands together and bowed a few inches, making sure to face to each of them. Though he appeared to speak their language, there was a clear accent on his tongue. “You are northerners, yes?”

  “I should think that was obvious,” said Lorn tersely. He had let go of the donkey and positioned himself between the man and his companions. “Who are you?”

  The man smiled. “A friend, sent by someone who means to help you.”

  It was so absurd Lorn almost laughed. “Angels of Fate, not again . . . Listen, friend, we have everything that we need. We don’t need any help, so why don’t you just leave us?”

  “Let him talk,” said Eiriann. She studied the stranger carefully. “You’re a friend? Who sent you?”

  “Patience, please,” said the man. “Tell me, you are Seekers?”

  There was no patience in Lorn at all. He snapped, “We’re not Seekers, we’re Liirians. On your way, now.”

  Flustered by his outburst, t
he stranger held up his hands. “No, no, please listen. You are here for Mount Believer?”

  “Mount . . . ?” Lorn hesitated. “Who are you? Why are you asking us this?”

  “I am from someone who wants to protect you,” the man insisted. “You seek Mount Believer, so you are Seekers. So it is dangerous for you here.”

  “Why is it dangerous?” Lorn asked. “There are many like us here.”

  “It is dangerous,” the man repeated.

  “Well, we’re not staying long,” said Lorn. “Just a night or two. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “To cross the Desert of Tears?”

  “Fellow, you ask too many questions,” warned Lorn. He stepped closer to the man, who was far smaller than he. “So start answering some of our own. Who sent you? The ruler of this place?”

  The man shook his head. “No, no, I cannot say. I am to bring you to a safe place.”

  Lorn turned his back at once. “Forget it.”

  “Please,” begged the man. He reached for Lorn . . .

  Lorn whirled with a shout and shoved him over, sending him tumbling into the dusty street. The stunned man lay looking up at him. People passing by took notice of the ruckus. With Lorn standing over him, the Ganjeese man put up his hands.

  “No,” he said. “You make trouble at your peril.”

  “I’ve seen my share of trouble,” Lorn growled. “If you want more, stand up and get it.”

  The man stood and brushed the dust from his white wraps. He waited a moment for the curious to look away, then defiantly approached Lorn once again.

  “You fear me, but it is not I you should fear. I come from a friend, someone you don’t know but who means to help you.”

  It was all too confusing; Lorn groaned in aquiscense. “All right . . . go on.”

  “I cannot tell you everything,” the man whispered, “but there is a place for us to talk. It is dangerous for us to speak here in the street. We will speak in privacy, yes?”

  “Where?”

  “At a shrana house, nearby.”

  “And what is a shrana house?”

  The man gestured down the street. “There,” he said, pointing out a pretty building of stone and bright tiles. “A place to drink.”

  “A tavern,” said Lorn dryly. His memory of the Blue Ram still fresh, he hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll go with you,” offered Garthel. He was careful not to use Lorn’s name. “So you won’t be alone.”

  “Me too,” said the blind Bezarak.

  “Good,” said the stranger. “All of you come. Things will be explained to you.”

  Lorn hesitated. He didn’t trust the dark man, though he didn’t think him an assassin, either. Perhaps he had information about other assassins? A plot of Jazana Carr’s?

  “We’ll come,” he said finally. “Bezarak, hold on to Garthel’s arm. Garthel, you stay close to me.”

  Old Garthel agreed, thrilled with the prospect of going with Lorn. He got down off the wagon, told his daughter sternly to look after the others, then took Bezarak’s sleeve. Before they departed, Lorn took his sword from the wagon and belted it around his waist. The Ganjeese man took notice of this, but only nodded.

  “Come,” he said, then led the three of them down the street, Lorn in the lead, Garthel and blind Bezarak close behind.

  The shrana house was very near. Not very different from the buildings around it, the place had an arched doorway but no door, only a heavy curtain of beads. The smell of sweet smoke lingered on the threshold, while bearded men sat at tables just outside under the shade of an eave, tossing dice and playing cards. The stranger went to the curtains and parted them, bidding Lorn and his companions to enter. It was dark within the shrana house. Lorn’s eyes struggled to adjust. He could see other dark-skinned men about the place, some at tables, many others sitting on woven blankets across the floor. Gold oil lamps lit the chamber with feeble flames. Strange but pleasant music rose from the flutelike instrument of a man in the corner. There were no women in the shrana house; even the servants were male. And all of them wore clothes like their guide. Lorn could not spot a northerner among them.

  “Are we allowed in here?” he asked.

  “You are welcome in this place,” the man replied.

  “But it’s so crowded,” Lorn remarked. “How can we talk privately here?”

  “Do not worry,” said the man, then directed them toward one of the empty tables at the far end of the tavern. Stubby legs held the table only inches off the floor. There were no chairs around it, only small square pillows. “Sit,” the man directed, then watched as Lorn and the others took places around the table. It took a moment for Garthel to lower his stiff body, though Bezarak sat with remarkable ease. When Lorn had taken a place he looked up at the stranger.

  “All right, now can we talk?”

  “Soon,” said the man. “I will have the servers bring you drink.”

  “We’re not thirsty,” said Lorn angrily, but it was too late. Already the man had exited into the crowd. Lorn looked around suspiciously. “Be wary,” he told the others. “Coming here might have been a mistake.”

  Garthel and young Bezarak both nodded, but could really do nothing to protect themselves. If it were a trap, it had already been sprung. A moment later a man appeared and set tiny white cups down on their table, along with a steaming urn of inky liquid. Seeing they were foreigners, the server smiled and tried to explain things.

  “Shrana,” he said.

  Garthel pointed at the urn. “Shrana? This?”

  The servant nodded, then began to pour each of them some of the pungent drink.

  “Beer?” Lorn asked the man hopefully.

  But the servant shook his head. “Shrana.”

  Lorn sighed and picked up his cup. “Shrana.” He took a sip of the hot drink and was shocked by its peppery taste. “Fate alive, that’s foul,” he gasped. “Don’t drink it.”

  But Bezarak was already drinking, and seemingly enjoying it. “Hot,” he commented. “But good!”

  “Good?” Lorn pushed his cup toward the young man. “Then have mine.”

  They sat like that for a long while, drinking or just taking in the sights of the shrana house. To Lorn’s relief, none of the other patrons had taken great interest in them. Most simply went about relaxing, drinking shrana or smoking tobacco out of water pipes. Finally, the man who had led them here reappeared. This time, though, he was not alone. Another man of Ganjor accompanied him to their table, this one oddly dressed in a combination of desert clothes and northern garb. He was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and not at all young, but there was virtue in his face that put Lorn at ease.

  “These are the men, Kamag,” said the man whom they’d first met. “The Seekers.”

  Kamag—if that was his name—sat down at the table between Lorn and Garthel. The other man sat, too. As they made themselves comfortable, the one in northern dress snapped his fingers in the air, instantly summoning back the servant. After some quick words in Ganjeese the servant brought two more cups. Kamag shooed him away before he could pour, doing the honor himself.

  “You do not like our shrana,” he said to Lorn, grinning.

  “If I were a maggot, perhaps I could drink it,” said Lorn impatiently.

  “That is a shame. I own this place, you see.” Kamag took a sip from his cup, sighed as if it were the most delicious stuff in the world, then looked at Lorn seriously. “My name is Kamag,” he said flatly. “This man is named Dahj. You are?”

  “In a very ill mood,” said Lorn.

  “And confused,” Garthel added. “Why have you brought us here?”

  “As Dahj said, to help you,” said Kamag. “You are looking for Mount Believer. That makes you trouble to some. We want to protect you.”

  Lorn’s patience was all but depleted. “Protect us from what?”

  “From a man named Prince Aztar. Have you heard of him?”

  Lorn shook his head.

  “Believe me,
if you cross the desert now you will.” Kamag leaned in closer, keeping his tone measured. “Prince Aztar is the ruler of the desert. At least that’s what he claims. And he cares very little for northerners like you. If he finds you trying to reach Jador, he will kill you.”

  “We’re not afraid,” said Lorn. “We’ve already faced worse than this dog Aztar.”

  “I doubt that, my friend,” said Kamag. “If we thought you were enough to best Aztar, we would let you try. Aztar has an army, ever growing. And you have . . . what?” He looked at Dahj.

  “There are thirty of them, maybe less,” Dahj replied.

  “Thirty.” There was mockery in Kamag’s voice. “Not enough to best an army, I don’t think.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lorn protested. “You’re Ganjeese—why are you telling this to us?”

  “Yes, we’re Ganjeese,” said Dahl. “But Aztar is not. He is Voruni.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Lorn.

  “The Voruni are tribesmen of the desert,” explained Kamag. “They live in the desert, make their home there. They are not part of our city. And they hate northerners, and people like me who do not hate northerners.”

  “Ah,” said Lorn, understanding at last. “They think you are traitors.”

  Kamag nodded. “To them we are infidels, no better than you. Because we do business with the northern lands, because we count your people among our friends, we are all in danger from Aztar and his army.”

  “I still don’t understand,” said Bezarak. “Why are you helping us? You don’t even know us.”

  “Because we have been asked to help you,” said Kamag. He leaned back. “And that is all you need to know.”

  “You are mistaken,” said Lorn. “We want some answers.”

  “I cannot tell you more than I have already,” Kamag insisted. “We can only warn you and offer you shelter until you are ready to head back north.”

  Bezarak’s brows shot up. “Head back? We’re not heading back north. We’re going to Mount Believer. Right, Lorn?”

  Lorn remained steely as he looked at Kamag. “That’s right.” Neither Ganjeese man seemed to notice the use of his name, and Lorn no longer really cared. “We’ve come too far to turn back now. We’re going on, just as soon as we’ve rested.”