by Lyndon Hardy
Alodar smiled at Grengor’s efforts to reach a spot high up in the center of his back. “Hold still for a moment,” he said. “I will give you aid while Aeriel catches her breath.”
Grengor turned his back, and Alodar briskly began to rake the area with his hand.
“Aieeee!” Grengor shouted and danced away. “Desist, master. Your scratch turns the itch into pain. I prefer the more gentle touch of the lady.” He knelt down before Aeriel, and she cautiously laid her hand on his back.
“Why, there is something caught underneath your tunic, Grengor,” she exclaimed. “I can feel the lump of it quite plainly against my palm.”
Alodar stepped forward and ran his hand down the neck of the garment. After a few exploratory jabs, he withdrew a small, round, and barbed object. “It is an ivoryroot burr,” he said. “I would not think that such a plant could grow so far north. No wonder you had discomfort this morning. Those spines would drive even the concentrating sorcerer to distraction.”
Grengor rose to his feet, flexed his shoulders and grinned. “Many a wound have I borne in silence,” he said. “It seems this ivoryroot is more than a match for a marine.”
He attempted to step forward to take the lead as the rest of the party began to bunch up behind. But with a flailing stagger, he pitched onto the rocky slope, breaking his fall only at the last instant. He turned and struggled to regain his feet as a marine and two barbarians nearby began to bellow with laughter at his plight. Alodar looked down, puzzled at his usually surefooted sergeant, and saw the reason for his fall.
“Grengor,” he said, “your bootlaces are tied together!”
Grengor scowled first at Alodar and then at Aeriel. “Such frivolity does little for discipline on the march. I am surprised that one of you two would act so out of character.”
“But, Grengor,” Aerial protested, “in no way would I do such to you. Perhaps your laces entangled themselves when you stopped to have the burr removed.”
“Unlikely that a double bucket knot could be made accidentally.” Grengor retied his boots and turned to resume the climb. “Enough. I know better than to confront your denials. Just do not be surprised if I give your campfire a wider berth in the future.”
Aeriel turned to Alodar and they exchanged questioning glances. Alodar shrugged and resumed the climb. Grengor worked out his heat as he attacked the ever-steepening mountain. Soon the entire party was again strung out in a long, thin line, clambering over the fallen rock and gasping for air.
They traveled for barely a quarter hour more when the monotony of heel on stone was broken by an angry shout back down the line.
“By the shields, I will have no more of this badgering.” The voice carried up to where Alodar circled a large boulder in the way. “Draw your sword now, knave, and let us settle it.”
Alodar quickly limped back down the line, shouldering marines and nomads aside. He reached the commotion just as blades clanked for the first time. “To your station,” he commanded the marine. “Attend to your chieftain,” he shouted at the nomad. The two men stopped and momentarily stepped backwards. “Enough,” Alodar concluded as he halted between them. “You both know that the gain of all depends on each of us working together, not against each other. Now what brings on such folly?”
“He drew on me, for what cause I do not know, master,” the marine said. “I unsheathed my own blade only to defend myself from his attack.”
“Away with your smooth words,” the other shot back. “Look at my head and shoulders. Do you think that I sweat so much in this dry air to drench me so? Ha, now look at this one’s goatskin. Empty with not a drop left for its intended purpose.”
Alodar looked back to the marine. His goatskin was flapping empty against his side. “Perhaps a leak, master,” he mumbled. “And I swear I did not come near this man until he whirled about and accosted me.”
Alodar eyed the evidence, trying to formulate a reprimand that would deter the rest of his troop from such conduct while not hampering their fighting spirit. As the marine’s glance dropped to the ground under Alodar’s penetrating stare, a startled cry from the head of the line shot down the mountainside.
“And now it is lady Aeriel,” Alodar growled in irritation. He sighed and began to limp back up the trail. “I shall attend to your punishment later.”
He passed two nomads, huddled beside the rough path, and saw them pull their garments about them in a sudden gust of wind. A fine mist billowed down the trail. Before Alodar could react, he was surrounded in dimness. He frowned and tried to brush the fog away with his hands as he continued upwards. He felt a tingling on his exposed skin as when he accidentally had spilled one of Saxton’s acids. His eyes began to sting, and only with difficulty was he able to force them open.
He heard Aeriel call again, this time quite near. Through squinted eyelids, he could barely see her, a little distance ahead, huddled behind Grengor’s bulk. Alodar joined them and Aeriel slipped from behind Grengor to his arms.
“It came up in an instant,” she said. “From totally clear to this biting fog.”
Alodar squinted out into the swirling mist, searching for an answer. Off to his right, he caught the dance of a feeble light. As he focused his attention, he heard a tiny malicious laugh. Aeriel and Grengor turned in the direction of the noise, and at that instant the breeze stopped.
The obscuring cloud dissolved and the light grew brighter, making small random motions in the air.
“Master,” Grengor shouted. “By the flames, somehow a bottle has been broken nearby.”
Alodar started to answer, but the air totally cleared. A tiny humanoid figure stared back at him out of the diffuse brightness. Scarcely a hand high, with long double-jointed limbs covered with coarse bristly hair, the creature hovered on long, transparent, veined wings that protruded from a misshapen knob in the center of its back. The small head sat oddly out of place before horny shoulder blades and shone with burning eyes above a gross caricature of human nose and mouth.
“Perhaps a broken bottle,” Alodar said at last. “Or perhaps, Grengor, you indeed were prudent to avoid gazing at the flame these many years. We have an imp among us, no doubt about it.”
Alodar looked into the glowing eyes. He felt a sudden pressure on his shoulders and a weakness in his knees. “Kneel and submit. Submit to your master.” A thin, reedy voice floated through his mind. “Resistance is futile when you are so tired.”
Alodar shook his head. “It speaks,” he said aloud. “Like a sorcerer, it seeks my free will.” He looked back at the small devil hovering inches in front of his face and tried to concentrate, as he had learned under Kelric’s instruction.
“Lay down your defenses,” the voice continued. “I will pester unceasingly until you do.”
Alodar felt a prickly itching on his chest and back. The teeth in his lower jaw began to ache. He sensed the imp’s presence in his mind, a hard and spiny ball that pulsed its message of supremacy. Like the ivoryroot burr, the sphere stabbed into his consciousness, each expansion blotting more of his free thought and increasing the distraction.
“You cannot conquer my will,” the sprite droned on. “Therefore it must be yours that will falter.”
Alodar’s thoughts blurred in confusion. The itching spread to his limbs and the pain in his mouth sharpened. He felt the impulse to do as the sprite said, to be done with the aggravation. But a deeper sense of preservation halted the reaction. He filled his lungs and focused on the throbbing irritation. To shy away from the confrontation would lead only to defeat. Mentally he formed a shell around the sphere and concentrated on expunging it from his mind. “Away, detestable irritation,” he ordered. “Back whence you came and bother us no more.”
The pulsing stopped for a moment, but then resumed with increasing frequency. “Submit, manthing. The itches, boils, and stings at my command will make your existence a torture. An infestation of a thousand fleas is nothing in comparison.”
“Begone,” Alodar yelled as he
strained to crush the ball into nothingness. “Begone before I change my mind and choose instead to keep you in a bottle.” He clinched his fists and increased the mental pressure.
The itching continued, and Alodar felt as if he were plunged in a vat of ravenous beetles. He squeezed his eyes shut. Imagining a great vice, he turned the shaft and closed the plates against the creature. For a second, nothing happened; but then, for the second time, the throbbing paused. Alodar detected a slight relaxation in the feelings which bedeviled him and pressed all the harder. The oscillations began again, but beat irregularly for only a few strokes more. With a gasp, he slammed the vice closed and felt the imp’s presence pop from his mind.
Without warning, the dancing brightness suddenly exploded in front of Alodar’s nose. With a loud bang, the imp disappeared from view. Alodar blinked twice in surprise and then rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe the afterimages away. He looked quickly up and down the trail. All was quiet with no hint of a breeze.
“An exorcism as good as any in the sagas,” Grengor said. “Have you managed somehow, master, to study the craft of the wizard as well?”
Alodar slowly shook his head. “My reaction was instinctive. Probably what any man would do if likewise confronted.” He stopped and ran his hand over his cheek. “Perhaps my sorcery helped somewhat, although the sensations were remarkedly different. The imp did not have the irresistible tug of an enchanter. If I surrendered, it would have been because I gave my will to him, not because he took it. And for my own part, the sickness and reaction were not there. I just willed him away until he accepted the command.”
“But a sprite nonetheless,” Aeriel marveled. “Unheard of this far north. It was remarkable enough when some spontaneously appeared in the Fumus Mountains. But here there is no source of exotic flame to help them through. I do not like it, Alodar. Throughout our history, demons have shown little concern for the doings of mankind. But now in the cold north, the interior of smouldering mountains, and the rebelling west, they are everywhere—and in not one case because of the intercession of a wizard.”
Alodar nodded and frowned in thought. He closed his eyes; instantly the vision of the spire sprang into view. “The wizard in the tomb,” he said. “He will have the answer.”
Alodar wearily climbed the rise and limped to look over the edge. Even his arms throbbed from the bounces of the trail. Quieting the nomads after the appearance of the imp had taken the better part of the day. Even without further incident their pace seemed to slow. Now at dusk, they would camp still a half day’s march from his goal.
Alodar topped the crest and his eyes widened. A high meadow, like a giant platter, rested between peaks which circled on three sides. At the far edge, butting against one of the slopes, was another barbarian camp. He quickly counted the fires and knew that they had found one of the larger tribes. A show of force might not work this time. His force was outnumbered two to one.
Grengor and some of the others clambered to his side. “A display of peaceful intentions and quickly, too!” the marine said as he scanned the scene. “We must give them no excuse to draw their blades.”
As the rest of their troop poured over the ridge, a small advance party rapidly was formed. Alodar, Grengor, the rest of the suitors, Vendora, and two of their chieftain allies broke apart from the rest and began marching across the intervening ground to the other camp. The carcasses of two hares swung from an extended lance as an offering of friendship.
A group of similar size left the larger encampment; midway between the two, they met under the darkening sky. Alodar stood at the head of his party, flanked by the two chieftains, and surveyed the men who faced them. Five were simply dressed in loincloths and carried swords and hide-covered shields. Two others wore vests of matted wool, and leather belts circled their waists. The man in the center towered above the rest, as tall as Rendrac had been, but trim and lean, with skin pulled tight over rippling muscles. His hair was jet black, framing deep-set, smouldering eyes over a jaw clamped with determination. His lips were thin lines, ready to challenge or yell a warning; only with difficulty could one imagine them turned upwards in a smile. His vest was lined with leather, and iron bracelets hid each of his massive wrists.
He stood with his fists at his hips and looked in turn at each of the chieftains at Alodar’s sides. “This year the game in these hills is too scarce to feed us all,” he growled. “The tribesmen of Grak are as hungry as any. Begone back to the lower slopes and we will have no quarrel.”
“We do not come to compete for food,” Basil called over Alodar’s shoulder. “Our direction is southward to acquire great treasure that will make concerns of the stomach a minor affair. We detour to the west only so that you have the opportunity to join and share in the good fortune to come.”
Grak frowned and looked back to the chieftains. “It is as the lowlander speaks,” one said. “Already he has showered us with jewels beyond even what you would dream. And mighty fighters will swing their swords among us as well. This one hacked his way through twenty men without the slightest frown of pain.”
Grak looked down at Alodar and shook his head in puzzlement. “The words of a soft lowlander can be trusted only when a sword is at his throat,” he said. “Besides this small one, with what other marvels do they widen your eyes?” He took a step forward and shouldered Alodar aside.
Alodar whirled and reached for his sword, Feston stepped in front of Vendora and Duncan began fumbling for the pouch at his side. “Hold your arms,” Vendora shouted as she saw the dark eyes stare down at her. “He comes only to look.”
Grak took another step forward and Vendora, stepping from behind Feston’s protection, drew herself erect. The nomad reached out and tipped her chin up, studying her face as he would appraise the booty from a battle. Vendora did not move but returned his stare unblinking. Grak touched her hair and ran a few strands through his fingers. “Like the sun,” he muttered.
“Say the word, my fair lady,” Feston growled. “I will make this barbarian pay for the indignity he shows your station.”
Grak continued stroking Vendora’s hair. Alodar tensed, darting his eyes back to Grak’s companions and deciding where to make his first thrust. It had been foolish to bring her along to the parley, he thought. It would have been far better to ignore her command, even though she was the queen.
“He has no perception of my station,” Vendora said at last, still looking Grak in the eye. She paused and then smiled. “And if you make it known, it will be to my displeasure.”
Grak’s frown returned and he looked back to Feston and the others. “Whose woman is she?” he asked. “Perhaps there is some basis on which we can barter.”
“To the four of us collectively,” Duncan blurted. “No single one does she call master.”
Vendora threw back her head and laughed. “I am sure that many of our ways seem strange to you, Grak, but it is for me to decide who is to be my chieftain.”
“In the north, a man takes what he wants,” Grak said.
Vendora’s face hardened. “The men of Procolon would make the price dear. You outnumber us, it is true, but many a warrior would feel the sting of our blades before it was through.” She glared into Grak’s eyes and then softened her expression with a smile. “And the prize is not nearly as sweet as when it is freely given.”
Grak grunted and studied Vendora for a moment more. He turned and again faced the two chieftains. “And do you adopt other lowland ways as well?” he asked. “Is there none among you who leads the others?”
“We go to the west, another half day’s journey,” Alodar said. “I lead the rest to the spire, and then we turn southwards.”
“Demontooth.” Grak spat. “It is folly to venture in that direction. The trees are gnarled. There is no game. And the devils give no rest to any who strive there. My father kept us well away and his father before him. How can you lead when you command your tribe so?”
“The barbarian speaks no less than the truth,” Feston cu
t in. “It is time we abandon this trek to nowhere and proceed southwards while we still can.”
Alodar looked at Grak, then at the doubt forming on the two chieftains’ faces. He frowned and tried to weigh the chances of getting them all to continue.
“Here, chieftain,” Basil broke the silence as he handed Grak a gem. “This is a mere token of what can be yours if you cooperate with what we wish to do. We seek little of your game. In a few days, we will be well away from these hills. At the very least, you can show us the courtesy to let us pass in peace. And if you join forces with ours, your rewards will be even greater.”
Grak looked down at the jewel thrust into his hand. He idly rolled it around his palm. He stared back at Vendora and his eyes narrowed. “Camp here for two nights while we talk,” he said. “I give you my permission.”
“And the west?” Alodar persisted.
“As I have said,” Grak replied, “there are demons there.” He waved his arm at the two chieftains. “And after I have spoken with them, they will not go either. It is only the trip south that we will discuss.”
“Then if it is to take two days,” Alodar said, “there is time enough for me to make the journey alone. I will be safely returned before you are done.”
Vendora looked at Alodar in surprise but quickly pushed her puzzlement aside. She studied Grak and then his campfires. “The strength of your tribe would aid me greatly,” she said, “and as Basil has stated, if you join forces with ours, your reward could be even greater.”
Grak stood in silence contemplating Vendora’s words. “Perhaps our talk will touch on more than a trek south,” he decided.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Demontooth Tower
ALODAR glanced over his shoulder as he started down the other side of the pass. The meadow that held Grak’s tribesmen disappeared from view. He looked ahead and visualized the contours of the trail. Rather than moving further upstream, it looked as if he must traverse two valleys to reach the spire. And even though foraging took the entire morning, he should reach the base of the tower by nightfall. He touched the small pack on his back and felt the reassuring lumps of his rations and the implements of his crafts.