"That's not what I expected," John-Lyon said, peering through what remained of the foliage, the young Mage rarely seeming puzzled. "That's the border, isn't it?"
Coluth could barely nod.
"Golden?" The loose limbed youth flowed forward. "I thought there'd be even more vegetation in Cinnabar than elsewhere. I thought the extra light gravity that's supposed to be across the border would make for taller plants in general."
"I have never been here, sir," Golden said.
"Coluth?"
"There is ... nothing in The Cinnabar."
This answer unsatisfactory to the Mage, John-Lyon again set out, but at a crawl, signaling them to halt behind the last, few trees.
Looking ahead, there was nothing but an empty, undulating land of brown and brittle weeds, Coluth recalling his former trudge through dried out vegetation. Nothing to be seen except the rock slab trading table twenty steps beyond the border ... a platform strangely changed; chunks of stone cracked from its corners, the ground around the table blasted as if by Mage-Magic, the dry grass scorched to bare dirt, the earth exploded into great, gray piles!
"I'd say that Pfnaravin has been here," said the Mage in his dust-dry voice. "And that he wasn't in the best of moods."
"But ... why?" Coluth could not put a reason to this destruction.
"Just a guess, but since the stone pieces that were knocked off the slab appear to be missing, I'd say that Pfnaravin is using them to weight himself down so he can walk without fear of floating to the sky dome."
"Reasonable," said Golden, the youth never far behind the Mage.
At some distance, old Tangu and young Philelph maintained their respectful silence.
"Is that trading floor made of fire stone?"
"Though I did not make a study of it," Coluth answered, trying to remain calm at the memory, "I believe that to be true."
"Heavy, but easily broken," the Mage muttered to himself. "And look there," John-Lyon pointing into The Cinnabar. "If I'm not mistaken, that's Pfnaravin's trail, the grass so dry there'd be no way to travel through it without snapping it off."
"That would seem so, sir," Golden said, a bow often to be discerned in the young man's voice.
"Only one path because the 'flyers' of Cinnabar ... fly?"
Coluth looked skyward again. But, like the last time he was here -- though he knew they must be there -- could see neither man nor bird soaring over head.
* * * * *
It was clear to John that Coluth was terrified to be on the verge of entering what the admiral always called The Cinnabar, it following that the rest were similarly horror stricken, even Mage-Magic unlikely to make them follow him into this troubling band. Or if he could coerce them into coming with him, they'd be useless in his quest to free Ellen from Pfnaravin.
So it was, as he'd supposed all along, that this trek must end as it had started: in a solitary confrontation between Mages. John vs. Pfnaravin. Crystal against Crystal.
Thinking of Crystal power, that was another thing to consider. The last time John had worn his Mage-Disk, he'd been as much a danger to his friends as to the enemy -- Crystal insanity an ever present threat to the Gem's user, the Disk's god-like power so dangerous to a Mage's sanity that John's plan was to don the Mage-Disk at the last moment before confrontation with Pfnaravin. Even then, given the Malachite Mage's greater skill with Crystal-force, John's only hope was in the luck that had seen him through to date.
For now, following the sensible admonition that a commander gives no orders likely to be ignored, John must forge ahead alone.
But what to do with the rest of his team?
He had a thought: that every army, even a battle group of one, should protect its rear.
"Coluth? Golden? Tangu. Philelph." Coluth and Golden coming to attention, the sailors to the rear approaching, all -- John noticed -- staying well away from the border. "I want you to remain here to guard my back against the Malachite troops that we know are on our heels. How many Malachites Helianthin has given 'permission' to come after us, I don't know. Considering our numbers, I can't think many. In any case, what I need most is time to find Pfnaravin. And to give me that time, I'd like you to employ harassing tactics against whatever troops are after us. You've got some arrows, Golden?" Golden nodded. "As for the rest of you, there's a simple weapon the Anglo-Saxons employed against the Normans at the battle of Hastings." Blank stares. "Another place. Another time."
John started over. "What matters is that this weapon is easy to make and works pretty well. First, hack down some tree limbs. After stripping off their collateral branches, pry up some of the foot thick rocks we've been stumbling over along the way, tying a rock to the end of each tree limb. When you want to do damage to the enemy, grab the other end of the branch and swing the stone round and round before letting go of the handle, a rock thrown like that hitting with surprising force.
"Don't take any chances. Stay behind the trees until ready to hit and run. Against a superior force, the only thing that works is guerilla tactics."
"Guerilla?" Coluth asked.
"It means strike, then fall back before they know what's hit them. If I know soldiers, they'll not want to rush into the woods after a phantom enemy, splitting up to do that making them even more vulnerable to attack. Your job will be to take any safe chance that presents itself to slow down their advance."
Damn! How did John explain guerilla tactics without a reference to angry American colonials pot-shotting British soldiers as the Brits' returned from Lexington and Concord? Or, for that matter, what happened to the ponderous American army in Vietnam.
"I can do that," Golden said soberly. Not we. But I. An assertion John believed. For, once-upon-another-time, John remembered seeing Golden throw knives with deadly accuracy. Figured that if the young man could handle arrows as well as he could "shivs," he'd be a one man wrecking crew -- John not wanting to explain what a wrecking crew might be.
The plan communicated, smiles conquered frowns on the sailor's faces.
"If there is time," Golden added, "we can make barriers on the trail. Dig traps."
"Good. Get to it, then."
John's men jumping to obey the lesser of the orders he might have given, he turned to weave his way around the last of Realgar's trees, again to halt at the edge of the crimson band.
Sucking in a calming breath -- he'd caught some of the others' fear -- he eased a foot across the border, the Cinnabar sky now a scarlet flame, the air resembling November's chill. Finding that his forward foot would "hold," carefully lifting his other foot, he slid it across the line, John now wholly within the ruby band.
To experience ... some pull ... though less than anywhere he'd been in this world of shifting gravity bands.
Looking down, he saw he was up to his ankles in brittle brown grass, his steps crunching the scraggly plants to powder, the dust floating around him, too little gravity to make the grass-granules settle, John already feeling like sneezing as the pulverized vegetation rose to tickle his nose.
The only way to get out of the swirl of grass-powder was to keep moving -- John taking another step to find that the most mincing motion threatened to bounce him skyward -- perhaps never to float down again.
This was no way to make progress, John bending over to examine the ground.
Grass.
Brittle if stepped on; the tangled roots of it straggling out of bare ground.
A potential solution to his motion problem?
Sliding the toes of his soft leather boots along the ground, he was able to hook them under the grass runners in front of him, the root-tangle ... holding.
So, the way to make time -- though still at an agonizingly slow pace -- was to shuffle forward, sliding your shoes under the swirl of grass growing from loose soil.
Standing carefully, scuttling forward, he passed the damaged trading slab, after that circling the geysers of blasted-up earth, grass-powder masking his wake like a heavy fog.
He was bird dogging Pfnaravin, though, the
track through the grass in front of him clear to anyone looking for it.
John wondered if the invisible "flyers" high above were aware of his presence, these "bird men" reputed to have the eyes of eagles.
Before him, the ground rose and fell, the terrain more swells and depressions than hillocks and valleys, Pfnaravin somewhere ahead. And Ellen, John increasingly thinking of her as his ticket home, instead of as the love interest she used to be.
John wondered of Pfnaravin's "rock" solution to the low gravity problem was better than John's method of snaking forward. Not that it mattered. However long it took, John was determined to catch the shifty Mage.
Except that John was going more slowly than a moment ago. Now, slower still.
Trying to avoid a quick movement that could spring him into the sky, John bent down again to look at his feet. Saw that, beside the grass roots keeping him from flying up with every step, his ankles had picked up silver threads, the threads slowing him down.
Careful to keep one foot secure under grass roots, he tried to wrench the other foot free, only to fail, John now seeing threads wrap themselves?? around his knees.
No. Not wrapping themselves. For, looking closer, John saw that tiny spiders spun these threads, spider-webs now circling his ankles and knees, John no longer able to move.
Attempting to flail his arms to wrench himself loose, John found his hands and arms drawn to his sides, multiple spider spinnings pinning them there with the combined strength of iron.
Wrapped up before he realized it, he heard a creaking sound, John straining in the vermilion light to see the ground open before him, a hole yawning five feet ahead.
From the cavity, bending over to exit a narrow tunnel, then stretching up, up -- to eight feet tall at least -- were ... men. Or what John took for men: small, alabaster heads atop elongated bodies; long, thin arms ending in white, finger-tendriled hands.
Men. Coming out from underground. One after the other. Five. Ten. Straightening to circle him.
Were these the "flyers" of Cinnabar? Could John talk to them?
"I'm John Lyon, the Mage of Stil-de-grain," he said, in as authoritarian a voice as a man could make, bound hand and foot.
Nothing. Except for the men yo-yoing spider threads at his body, the ends circling his waist, sticking there. After that, the man-creatures moving from the front, they tugged on the threads behind him until John was toppled on his back, his head hitting hard enough to produce the kind of stars never seen in this iron domed world.
The last John saw of the dusty, vermilion light of Cinnabar was when, first his body, then his head, was pulled down the "man" hole, the trap door closing to shut out the sky.
It was as if the earth itself had swallowed him -- as a first step to digesting him whole!
* * * * *
Chapter 22
The sailors and Golden were doing what the Mage said to do. But not Platinia. She was following the Mage. Her Mage. Able to do that because she had seen what the Mage had done. Trap his feet in the grass.
Platinia could do that.
And she did do that.
He did not see her because of the dust he was making, and that was good. Platinia could not breathe the dusty air, and that was bad. What she could do was walk to the side to stay out of the Mage's dust. To one side, she could breathe. A little better.
She did not like this place. A place where she was even smaller than in other places. She did not look smaller. But was sure she was smaller because she felt so tiny!
And she was cold, small people going cold faster than big people. Platinia pulled her robe tight around her because of the cold.
The sky was a pretty red. But she soon was tired of looking up at it.
As she walked, she made sharp sounds in the dry grass. But she got tired of listening to those sounds.
There were no trees to see here. No colored birds. No pretty flutterbys. Right away, she was tired of looking at the dust the Mage was making up ahead. And that she was making back behind.
If she stopped for even a short time, the dust came up to make her sneeze.
There was nothing interesting here. She wished the Mage would turn back.
And there it was again! That voice inside her head. A voice no one else could hear, but that she could hear. A voice she had heard for an up-light. Maybe two.
Pfnaravin's voice!
He was entering her mind as she could do to other people's minds. Sometimes. Not to make her feelings stronger as she could do to others. But to ... steal her thoughts about the Mage, John-Lyon. Was he following Pfnaravin? Did John-Lyon carry with him the golden Crystal-Disk of Stil-de-grain?
Though Platinia tried to keep her secrets from the old Mage, she could not. John-Lyon did have his Mage-Crystal. She had felt it through his robe after the Mage of the green eyes slept. High in a tree. She had not meant to find that out. Only to touch the Mage, Platinia liking to do that when it was safe. When he was asleep.
The Mage Pfnaravin was a bad man. And still, she could not keep him from her thoughts. He knew what she knew. She could not help that.
It was also true that when the old Mage forced a thread of Mage-Magic into her mind, on the same thread, could she see back into his mind. A little. He still had the woman with him. Finding that out, Platinia did her best to make the Mage, Pfnaravin, hate this Ellen, so that he would hill her. But Platinia could not do that because Pfnaravin had no feelings about the woman. He did not love her. He did not hate her. He did not think of her at all. It was enough for the old Mage too know that the women was why John-Lyon came after him. Pfnaravin wanted John-Lyon to come. Platinia could not tell why.
Up ahead, John-Lyon had stopped, Platinia almost catching up before she could think to stop also!
After that, there came a sound in this red land of dust. A sound different from the crunch of feet that made the dust.
Looking ahead, moving a little forward so she could see through the dust she had made by stopping, she saw the ground ... become a hole.
Men were coming out, Platinia bending low very much, making herself small so she could hide.
Men. White men. Tall men. Little heads. Long arms and legs. Thin arms. Thin legs. Thin fingers.
Quickly picking one to think about, sifting through his mind, he was thinking about ... spiders. More than thinking. He was ... causing the little spiders to do what they did, this man having the little spiders spin webs around John-Lyon.
John-Lyon spoke, but she was too far back to understand what he said.
After that, the spider men -- for that was what they were -- pulled John-Lyon until he fell. Began dragging the Mage toward the hole in the ground.
She could see into the minds of these spider men ... because they all thought alike ... all very much afraid.
As quickly as she could, Platinia followed after the spider men. Saw them drag John down into the ground. Saw the hole in the earth close up.
Arriving at the hole that was no hole, Platinia felt until she found the edge of the hole. Digging in her fingers, she pulled up a ... flap ... the earth coming up easily to show the hole again.
While the tall, tall men had to bend over to enter, Platinia did not. Instead, she went down the hole, turning to close up the earth door behind her.
Inside, there was a glow. It was the walls. Glowing with a weak, blue light. But enough light to see by.
Ahead -- the ceiling taller, taller -- the men were pulling John-Lyon, except that now, the inside of the hole through the ground was covered by something soft. Soft and springy.
It was the web of spiders, Platinia thought.
Again, she thought the thoughts of the men-spiders.
Afraid. They were afraid of the Mage. Even though their little spiders had tied him up.
Picking through the tall mens' one and only mind, she saw they were afraid of being ... broken. That if they were to touch something ... hard ... their arms and legs would break. That was the reason for the soft webs around the undergrou
nd hole. So that they did not touch something hard.
Fear was what they felt. Something Platinia could strengthen.
Concentrating on their fear, Platinia began to think it stronger. Stronger, still. Until the men pulling John-Lyon let him go, the spider men running this way and that in panic. Racing up the walls. Running across the ceiling.
It was easy for Platinia to do. Make the spider men afraid.
They saw her now. But did not come after her because they were afraid of her, too. Afraid of ... everything.
Shifting her mind, she doubled their fear of the Mage.
"Release me," she heard the Mage say, John-Lyon also sensing the fear of the tall men.
And ... they did, spraying something from their hands at the Mage, the webs fastened to him falling away, the Mage standing.
Now, she was near the Mage. Then beside him.
"Platinia," he said, surprised. But was not angry.
"They will not hurt you," Platinia said, not thinking of anything else to say. "They are afraid of you."
"That does seem right. But how do you know that?"
Platinia did not know what to say. It was her secret that she was an etherial. That she could increase someone's thoughts. Make they feel ... more.
"They are ...." What was that word Platinia wanted? She tried again. "They ... break."
"Break?"
"They are men ... of ... glass." That was not right, but what else could she say?
The Mage just looked at her with his sharp green eyes. She tried again. "They break ... easy."
"You're saying they're fragile?"
That was a word that was better than glass.
"Yes. Fragile. They break easy."
"I can see that," said the Mage, looking ahead of him at the many spider men, some tall men crouched on the tunnel floor, some on the wells, some stuck to the ceiling. All stopped. As if, by not moving, they could hide. "In such light gravity they would grow tall but maybe not have strong bones. Astronauts have to exercise a lot to keep their muscle and bone mass. If they don't, they waste away in null gravity."
Ellen Under The Stairs Page 18