by J. M. Martin
I hear a horse canter up next to mine. The woman on it sits on the beast as if she fears it might turn to mud beneath her. Ashdet is one of the finest warriors I have ever known on foot, and has a mind like lightning, but she has never felt comfortable with horses. Standing taller than most men, perhaps she fears they cannot hold her; I have never asked.
“The men grow restless, Baldos.” As always, her voice is soft in the same fashion as a lion’s paw, hiding the claws within. “We cannot afford to pass up another caravan.”
“You once again fail to see the bigger picture, Ashdet.” I have known this woman for ten years now, when she was no better than a solitary highwayman. I have watched her grow into a fearsome bandit, almost as famous as myself. She still has much to learn, however. “We are not ordinary thieves and killers. Anybody can rob a salt merchant, but where is the glory in that? Where is the adventure?”
“Glory and adventure can’t fill a belly,” she replies, and tucks a stray strand of black hair up under her scarf. “You’re like a father to me, Baldos, but you need to face the truth. If we don’t hit some soft targets soon, you’ll have mutiny on your hands.”
I can’t help but laugh a bit when I see a plume of dust in the distance. “If worries were foot soldiers you’d rule the world. Don’t worry, our target is here, right on schedule. Speaking of, did you prepare today’s surprise?”
Ashdet sighs, defeated again by my charm and insight. “These miracles of yours are another thing that—”
“Is it ready, or isn’t it?”
Her glare could kill a cow from a thousand paces. “Yes, it’s ready. I’ll get the boys up.” I stay to watch the approaching caravan as she rides off. Three wagons, perhaps six guards. And…yes, they bare the crimson feather of Ol-Oloum. Perfect.
A little known fact is that there is an art to banditry, for those who wish to perfect it. Yes, it is easy to swing a sword about your head and scream some demands. That will get you a handful of coins to throw away at the nearest brothel. The true art, however, is not in taking but in trading. Give your victims a story to tell in hushed whispers over the fire, and not only gain their money, but their minds as well.
Imagine what the souls in this caravan see. They plod through the dust of the pass, after days of awful trudging under the hot sun. They look up, drawn to the flash of light on steel, and see bandits riding down the ridge at breakneck speed, whooping like demons come straight from hell. And look! At their head is Baldos ber Baldos, the Laughing Wind himself! The guards draw their weapons, their wealthy employers shrink into the darkness of the carts and whisper prayers to their ancestors. Between the thunder of hooves, the scent of sweat, and the bared teeth of the bandits, none of them notice an arrow fall in the scrub behind them.
Just before the bandits are upon them, an unearthly shriek fills their ears. Suddenly the caravan is surrounded in birds, where before there were none. They flap around in blind panic, their wings and talons scratching exposed skin, their voices spooking the horses. The first man Ashdet kills that day is too busy gawking at the spectacle to realize her blade has opened his throat.
The other guards fall quickly enough, but the lead caravan driver has the wits to drive his camels ahead. But I am already there in front of him, magnificent in my armor and silks—thankfully, the white fabric doesn’t show bird shit—my sword bared. “Stop now, or your lives are forfeit to the Laughing Wind!”
I can see the fear in the driver’s face, and the recognition. He has heard of the Laughing Wind, of course, but who knew that he could summon the birds of the desert at will? He will never know that the cages were laid days in advance of the caravan’s arrival. If he survives, he will pass the story on to everyone he meets. Being robbed by Baldos ber Baldos is not a misfortune, it is a gift. Though not one that is well appreciated.
#
We make camp in a small ravine, sheltered from the biting winds that blow from the desert each night, as well as prying eyes. I am not worried about discovery tonight. Three days will pass in Ol-Oloum before they think to look for the missing caravan. The night after a raid is meant for feasting and boasting, two arts of which I am the undisputed master.
“…and just as the beast descended upon me, I reached into my sash and brought forth the necklace of the Jinni Queen—”
An impertinent hand from across the fire rises up. “I thought you said that it was the Queen’s anklet you took.”
The man is right. I have told this story a thousand, thousand times. How could I forget? “Fool! Of course I stole her anklet, but what good would that have done me against a raging manticore? Her necklace, on the other hand—which she gave to me as a token of her affection—had the power to soothe the wrath of any savage creature. As I was saying—”
A finger taps on my shoulder. I turn around to see Ashdet looking sullenly down at me. “A word,” she says, “in private.”
I know that tone. She’ll pursue me to the end of the earth until I do as she wishes. Turning to my disappointed audience, I bid them wait, and follow my second into the darkness beyond the campfire. “What more do you possibly have to gripe about? The ruse went exactly as planned.”
Ashdet crosses her thick arms in front of her chest. “My armor is completely coated in bird shit now, but that’s beside the point. It’s about the prisoners.”
The middle cart in the caravan was stamped with the red feather of Ol-Oloum, and held two young women dressed in blue robes. “Ah, yes. They should ransom nicely. The king paid for quite the sum for the last priestess we captured.”
“That’s the thing, Baldos. They’re not priestesses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They are dressed—”
“They’re shrine-wards.”
My heart sinks. Man and woman alike, only virgins may join the priesthood of Ol-Oloum. If an acolyte has been…sullied, yet is unwilling or unable to return to their former life, then they may become a shrine-ward, little better than a slave to the priesthood. In other words, our hostages are not worth a single ounce of silver. I glance at the younger one, and shudder at the thought of what she must have gone through. “Why in the name of sanity was an official caravan shipping a pair of shrine-wards by themselves?”
“I have no idea,” whispers Ashdet, warning me with her eyes to keep my voice down. “You know what the men will do if they learn that those two aren’t valuable.”
I nod, closing my eyes. Before I rose to lead my own band, I saw what happened to hostages whose ransom could not be paid. “Take me to them.”
The shrine-wards are tied fast to a wooden post in the ground. The older is perhaps twenty years old. The younger is not even half that. They have both been crying, but I see something interesting in the younger’s face: outrage. I kneel in front of her and look into her eyes. “Do you know who I am, little one?” She nods and begins to speak, but I place a hand on her mouth. “No, I do not want to know who you are. You and your sister here are not shrine-wards, because bandits have neither use nor fear of them. Do you understand?” She nods again.
Ashdet sits beside me, and begins sketching directions in the dirt. “I will let you out in the night. You have to be swift and silent. If you follow the Eastern Star for as long as you can run, you should be able to reach civilization. Am I clear?”
The older girl nods. “Yes. Run towards the Eastern Star. Be swift and silent. I understand.”
“Good,” says Ashdet and smiles. I have seldom seen her smile, and there is a good reason for that. It is not the most reassuring sight. “We’ll have no choice but to come looking for you come morning, so get out of sight the minute you see the sun rise.”
An idea strikes me, suddenly. “What if,” I say slowly. “What if there is nothing for us to chase?”
Ashdet raises an eyebrow at me, but does not interrupt. I have the attention of the two girls, too. The younger one manages to get her mouth away from my hand. “You mean, make them think we don’t exist?”
“Precisely,” I say.
“We still have some of the black powder, yes?”
#
The fire is burning low when I return, but the men remain in high spirits. I can almost hear the clink of coins in their eyes as they plan to spend their share of the loot. Without the ransoms, however, the bounty does not add up to very much. Ashdet is right about one thing: they will not be happy about this.
“Gentlemen,” I say, stepping back into the circle of light, “I am sure you have been waiting with bated breath for my return! Shall I continue my tale?”
“You tamed the manticore with the magic of the Queen’s necklace,” scoffs one big man in the front. I believe his name is Knife Fist, or some other grisly appellation. “Or was it her anklet? It’s hard to keep track how many ways you can tell the same story.” Scattered laughter breaks out in the crowd.
My smile never breaks, but I make a note to put this man back in his place soon. “Just so. I know you are all tired of the tale of the manticore,” I say and lean forward conspiratorially, “which is why I have decided to divulge, for the very first time, what happened after I bested the monster.” I am gaining their attention again, so I lower my voice so that they must move closer to the fire in order to hear.
“I swore upon my life to never divulge the secrets I learned that night—a night much like this one, as a matter of fact—but I trust that none of you will repeat the information I am about to share.” I can feel their eyes on me now, with no sound beyond the crackling of the fire and the howl of the winds above us. “Gentlemen,” I whisper, “have any of you ever seen a ghul?
“They are creatures that take the form of a man—indeed, you would not blink at one if it walked next to you in the bazaar. They walk as we do, talk as we do, but they do not eat as we do. Ghuls eat but one thing, and that is rotting flesh.” I see some disgusted faces around the fire and play off that. “Yes! The more putrid the meat, the more a ghul savors it, especially once maggots take root inside of it. They crave this delicacy the way a dog craves a bone. On quiet nights like this one, when pickings are slim, you can sometimes hear them wail their frustration to the stars.” As if on cue, the wind picks up, howling through the ravine like death itself. My men have been hearing this same wind all night, but now they listen closely, wondering if it masks the hunting call of a ghul.
I shift a small bag from one sleeve into my palm, masking the motion by kneeling as close to the fire as I dare. “After I slew the manticore, and took its hide as a trophy, I decided to make camp for the night. Since I had no desire to sleep within spitting distance of a slaughtered animal, I moved over the nearest dune to pitch my tent. My friends, this was the wisest decision I ever made, and I am only here before you now because of it. That night, I was awoken from my slumber by shrieking that could wake the dead. I knew instantly that the ghuls were making a meal of my kill.
“Now, no man has ever seen a ghul eat and lived to tell the tale; they are vain creatures, and they tear apart anybody who sees one of their grisly feasts. How could I, Baldos ber Baldos, pass up the chance to watch? Slowly, I crept to the crest of the dune, and peeked my head over the top. Down below were two ghuls, driving their hands into the carcass of the manticore, and whispering to each other in their guttural language. It was the vilest thing I ever witnessed in my life, and that is not a claim to be taken lightly. Just as I was about to return to my tent, I saw something stranger still, something that defies all description. It was—”
An unearthly howl interrupts me before I can go on, thankfully. I was running out of ideas. Every man jumps at once, some into one another’s arms. While they stare past my shoulder into the darkness beyond, I shut my eyes and slip the parcel into the flames. A deafening bang sounds out as white-hot light blooms from the fire. Chaos erupts from the camp as the men tumble about, blind and deaf. I turn towards the posts, and pray that Ashdet has remembered her cues. Sure enough, the two young ladies step out of the darkness, their faces nearly unrecognizable death masks thanks to some strategically placed dust and ash.
The younger one raises her hand and almost speaks, but I silence her with a subtle gesture. My men are still insensate from the black powder. After a few minutes, a scream from behind confirms that my two ghuls have been spotted. I wink at them to begin their performance.
As one, the girls point their fingers towards me—I see red dye on their hands, a nice touch if I say so myself—and open their mouths as wide as they can go. The words that issue forth are deep and blood curdling. “Baldos ber Baldos,” they rasp, “you have betrayed the secrets of the ghul.” As I fall to my knees, I decide to commend Ashdet once this is over. Her talent for voices is simply astonishing.
“I have done no such thing, fell spirits,” I say, holding my hands out pleadingly. “The story I told was a fiction, A fabrication of our meeting, no more. Your great secret is still unknown to any but the three of us.” Several men behind me echo my pleas, including, I note with some satisfaction, Blade Hand or whatever his name is.
“Then your life, and the lives of those with you, is spared. For now. Speak of this again, and we will return, and we shall show no mercy.” The girls step backwards into the darkness, taking their time as I told them to. After the explosion, the darkness beyond the fire is completely impenetrable to our eyes. In a few seconds, the girls would be off and running towards safety while the entire band believes that it has narrowly escaped a horrible death. I silently pray for their lives as I shout thanks to the ghuls as loud as I can, to mask their footsteps.
#
Memories fill my mind’s eye like a flash flood, and I am swept away in them, everywhere and nowhere at once. There is my father, walking out of the door for the last time; there is my first theft, a purse snatched from a drunken soldier; there is Ashdet, telling me that I have to leave the gang before the men kill me; and there is Baldos ber Baldos last week, robbing three young men at sword point, just before his horse throws its shoe.
In each and every memory I see through my eyes, and through the eyes of those around me. A ruthless cutthroat, a foolish braggart, a roguish bandit, a living legend, an old windbag, a hero of the people, a mad upstart. I see now that all of these visions are true, but behind them all is just a person. Just me, an old man who thought he was both more and less than the Laughing Wind.
My vision returns, gradually, and I see Tanis standing before me, her expression unreadable. Her eyes look into mine, and I know them now. “It was you,” I whisper. “The little shrine-ward. Even then, you had no fear. But—”
“How am I here now?” For the first time, she smiles, truly smiles. “I have you to thank for that. By the time my sister and I reached Ol-Oloum, the two shrine-wards you captured were presumed dead, or worse. We arrived in the city unknown by any, with no reason to doubt our…purity.” She spits the last word as if it were poison.
“My sister, Asherah, married a farmer, a good man. They will soon have their first son. I decided to join the priesthood again, under a new name, with a new purpose in mind. Over the years I have reached out, found others in the sisterhood who think as I do. Together we are changing things, slowly, breaking down the walls that have been built between priests and the people. None of this would have been possible if not for the kindness you showed us that night.”
I can’t help but laugh, but it is not the booming thing of a legendary bandit, just a prisoner’s rueful chuckle. “Thank Ashdet, not me. It was her foresight that saved you. I just told a story.”
“I already have,” says Tanis, squeezing my hand in her own. “You might want to know that she’s doing very well for herself—the most famous bandit in the land, they say. Famous, but not legendary.”
For years I hated Ashdet for forcing me out, but with this new clarity, I see it was the last kindness she could show me. “I’m glad. She’d hate being a legend. There’s no profit in it.” I look up at the wall and see that the rosy square of light is almost entirely faded. “You said that you had two gifts for me. I can tell you won’t be using
your fancy priestess powers to help me out of this pit.”
Tanis stands up again, and brushes the dust off of her dress. It amazes me how much the angry little girl I met has grown, but the spark I saw in her eyes that night is still there. It may not burn as brightly, but it has lost no heat. “You’re right. You have saddled your horse, now you must ride wherever she takes you. One good act does not wipe away a lifetime of theft and murder.”
“Just tell me that you’re not going to make me repent.”
“Then you truly have no regrets?”
I think for a moment. Nobody would argue that I am a good man, least of all myself. But even if I never broke bread with the jinni, rode on the currents of the air, or learned the tongues of birds and beasts, I have lived an extraordinary life. I have met people who heard my stories as children, and repeat them to others when they need to laugh. What better legacy does a man need? “Just one. I regret dying in such a coarse manner as beheading. It’s no way for a tale to end.”
Tanis reaches into one of her sleeves and brings forth something that looks suspiciously like a bean. “I was hoping you would say that.” She hands the bean to me and enfolds my fingers around it. “Tomorrow, when you’re on the block, hold this under your tongue. This is my second gift, to repay the kindness you showed me.”
I roll the thing between my fingers. It feels warm, almost alive. “What is it?”
Tanis kisses my cheek. “A legendary ending,” she says. Picking up her cloak, she wraps it around herself, and walks toward the door.
I look at the bean again, and make it vanish—a sleight of hand I learned when I was eight years old. “Little ghul,” I call, before she can leave entirely. “Your sister’s son. What will they name him?”
Tanis throws the hood of her cloak up and smiles without even a hint of the sadness I saw earlier. “I hear that Baldos is a very popular name for boys lately,” she says, and leaves my cell.