by Lyndon Hardy
"If you speak of Demontooth, then we will hear your words," Grak said. "It is but a half day away, unlike all the battles of glory many weeks march to the south."
The nomads grunted their acquiescence and all of the others were silent. Handar's lips curved into a smile. "Perhaps not the pomp and circumstance to which I am accustomed," he said, "but until you know better it will suffice."
He paused, then continued. "Despite the decay which has apparently rotted my craft, you must all know at least a glimmer of how it works, of the flame that is necessary to form the pathway between the worlds, of the resistance which prevents the most powerful demons from appearing here of their own choice. But do you know as well that with each passage into our world, the resistance is slightly lowered? Less effort is required to bring the next demon of the same strength across. When one returns, the barrier increases by a like amount. If the contacts are sporadic in space and time, the situation remains relatively static and no great harm is done. But concerted effort to flood us with demonkind could cause the barriers to fall, so that more powerful djinns could reach out and touch our minds with simpler flames. And as more come forth, the hurdle becomes lower still."
Aeriel frowned. "But such a process is unstable," she said. "Eventually, demons of inconceivable might could vent their great power as they willed."
"The potential has been present from man's distant memories," Handar agreed, nodding his head, "But so long as demonkind viewed our intrusions and summons as a minor irritation from another world, then it did not matter. The mighty devils soon tire of?and destroy?the few foolish men who challenge them. But if for some reason, by logic that only their fiendish minds could follow, a demon prince came to covet our world and the hearts and minds that dwelled within it, then our peril would be great indeed. And if a prince did desire such a conquest, how would he proceed?"
Handar paused and noted with satisfaction the upturned faces and backs hunched forward, "We cannot know for sure, of course, but it is plausible he would act as follows. First he would wait until in the random course of human events the craft of wizardry sagged into a nadir of petty exhibitions and traveling entertainments. Without great wizards to interpret what was happening, his designs would proceed undiscovered and unchecked for far longer than otherwise possible. He would direct his minions to act towards a common goal, once they succeeded in dominating the fools who dared too much. Rather than strutting these warlocks as comic puppets to be used and then discarded, the djinns would force their actions to be like normal men. And then, as these slaves moved among us unsuspected, there would come a time when a group of them would be alone with a man with some military power, perhaps an outland baron with few guards to subdue. After a hearty meal in front of a roaring hearth to keep out the cold, they would seize him and hold his head toward the flame and force his eyelids open until they had another subjugation. Or perhaps in a dungeon without food or hope until the will to resist weakened. I do not know the details; they are unimportant."
"Bandor," Aeriel interjected. "From the beginning his possession was most puzzling."
"From what Alodar has explained, he was probably the first of the ones who did not dabble," Handar replied. "With his peerage, the demons had control of the beginnings of an army. Far more important, it meant that there was opportunity for trusting lieutenants, neighboring barons, and captured opponents to be tricked and forced into submissions as well. And with each look into the flame and transferal, the resistance weakened, so that more could come. More demons to direct the growing chaos of war, to conquer greater fiefdoms, to bring still more into bondage. Under the guise of a mortal struggle, the demon power would grow from baronies to kingdoms and eventually the whole world."
"But how do you know?" Duncan protested. "It is a pretty theory and nothing more."
"Yes," Feston joined in. "Except for the talk of the sorcerers, we would not even suspect that the revolt in the west is more than the well-understood actions of ambitious men."
"A rebellion that swelled from a single barony to ally the entire west?" Handar replied. "And one that fights with such ferocity that you cannot put it down? Kingdoms to the south who have squabbled among themselves for centuries suddenly uniting and thrusting at Procolon together? A resistance so weak that not only sprites but djinns of true power appear unsummoned about the base of the spire? These events are not random chance. We are faced with possession by design. There is more than the fate of the ruling class of Procolon at stake."
"But if what you say is true," Aeriel asked, rising to her feet, "what can we possibly do against such power?"
Handar patted his fingertips together. "We can at least hope to defeat them in battle. Not all of the men are demon-possessed, only the leaders. If we can crush the forces which march against Procolon and either slay or free the ones possessed, the resistance will return to its former values. Then it will be only imps with which we will have to deal. Once on our guard, we may be able to resist until the prince behind the attack loses interest and turns his attention to other worlds."
"But that is no less than what we already strive for," Basil cried. "We hope to convince enough of these rough barbarians to the fair lady's cause so that we can crush the insurrection, as you say. Procolon's regular army battles Bandor in the west. With enough additional swords, we will also halt the thrust from the south. Demon plot or none, our course of action is the same."
"If you could imagine the fate which will be ours if we fail," Handar said, "then you would not be so glib about what it is for which we will fight. Now they control only a few, but in the end it would be each and every one of us a slave. And for what perverted delights we would be the pawns, I cannot say. To shear off our own fingers and toes one by one, to labor for years to pound our towers and walls into fine sand, to float for eternities with no sight, touch or sound, to hack loved ones into pulp. The horrors they press upon the poor warlocks when they are bored can be only a small glimmer of what would be."
Handar halted and a heavy silence fell on them all. Alodar saw Grengor and Duncan squirm as they imagined their own private hells. Aeriel bit her lip in pensive thought. Vendora stared at the slowly heaving chest of Grak the barbarian.
Grak broke the silence as he rose. "It is well enough for you lowlanders to be so clear as to what you must do. But for my tribesmen, we have heard first a day of soft promises and now words of fear. We have had the devils among us for ages and they have given us no bother, so long as we stay clear."
"The demons will seek you out," Handar promised. "They will concentrate first on the lowlands where there are more to possess, true. But eventually there will be no place in these mountains in which you can hide."
Grak stared down at Handar for a long time in silence. "You claim to be a great wizard," he said at last. "Show me some of your craft so that I may verify the truth of what you say."
Handar returned Grak's stare with his chin extended. "I have said I am a wizard," he replied, "and that is sufficient. As to the power of my craft, Alodar can demonstrate enough to make you tremble."
Grak's nostrils flared. "I have seen imps enough in my time not to fear their irritations. Work your spell, and we will see if I judge it to be great wizardry."
Alodar looked quickly at the scowling face of the barbarian. Handar's manner had given Grak an insult that could not be put aside easily. And it would be uncertain that this first effort in conjuring would be startling enough to impress the proud nomad. Another tack was called for if he was to be convinced. Alodar looked at the sub-chief scratching his head to Grak's left. Without thinking, he reached down and rubbed the latest flea bite on his leg; then his eyes brightened with an idea.
"There are more products from the labor of wizardry than just fear," Alodar said. "Rest easy while I provide something that should benefit your tribe far more."
Alodar knelt to the ground and rummaged through his pack. He withdrew a few clusters of pine needles and the roots from a painted daisy. He placed t
hem in rough stone bowl by the fire. From the carcass of a freshly killed hare he dripped the fats and juices until the plants were covered. Into a wicker basket he scooped some ashes from the smouldering fire.
"All of this is unnecessary," Handar objected. "For a simple imp, you need only common flame."
"I am ready now," Alodar said. "The rest is for what will come after." He looked once more at Grak, breathed deeply, and turned his attention to the fire. As Handar had instructed, he let his eyes decouple and drift out of focus.
The yellow and gold blurred together. Wide-eyed, Alodar felt the fascination of the dancing flame tendrils, the lure to probe the mysteries that lay beyond. He clinched his fists and willed his presence forward, past the incandescent sheen, into the very heart of the blaze.
Alodar stared and his sense of time melted away. Unlike the effort of sorcery he felt no discomfort, no pain and gagging nausea to overcome. He envisioned the pathway as a great pipe connecting one world with the other, a vertical shaft with a tough, translucent membrane stretched across its throat, preventing transfer. He concentrated on building his will, making it stronger, constructing a huge weight, pressing against the barrier to break the resistance and allow passage. The membrane twisted, sagged and stretched out of shape so that it finally ripped and failed.
He concentrated upon wishing the tattered remains of the barrier away. For a moment, nothing happened; then his mind exploded with the feeling of a dozen gentle pricklings. In a rush, he sensed a dozen more. Boiling balls of consciousness whirled in confusion, each one subtly distinctive, diving at his thoughts and snatching them away. "Gladril," he thundered aloud, as the identity of one sprang to mind. "I have work for you, sprite of the water. Until I am done, your will is mine."
The presence of the other imps immediately winked away. Alodar felt only one skittering around in his head. His conversations with Handar and the experience with the sprite on the trail gave him confidence, and he projected resolve as hard as steel. "Come forth, Gladril," he said. "I command you to my bidding."
Instantly the air above the fire fissured with a sharp crack. In a tiny cloud of steamy vapor, Alodar saw thick, horny wings and the ends of spindly and hairy legs. He heard gasps and grunts of surprise in those about him but he ignored the distraction.
"You have chosen an imp of no mean power," a voice squeaked from the mist. "Either submit or let me return. You interact further at your peril."
"Silence," Alodar ordered. "There is no time for you to exercise your feeble desires. I feel the pulsing of your will and know I can crush it to nothingness in an instant." He grabbed the wicker basket and held it above the stone bowl. "Quickly now, hot water to leach the ashes."
Without further protest, the cloud zoomed to hover above Alodar's outstretched hand. With a brief flash of light and a tiny pop of thunder, steamy rain fell into the basket and then trickled through to the bowl below.
"Enough," Alodar said after a few moments. "Now to the bowl and boil the brew together. Use your wings to beat the ingredients into a fine emulsion."
"But the mess will stick to my hairs. I will be a mortal year in cleaning it all off."
"To the deed," Alodar growled.
Like a dense fog the imp settled into the bowl. Almost instantly, the container filled to the brim with an oily water. Bubbles formed around the edges, and then a violent frothing churned in the middle. Above the bubbling, Alodar heard the high pitched buzz of the sprite's wings as the imp stirred the mixture together.
"And now cool the broth and dump it on the sub-chieftain's head," Alodar said as he pointed to the one with the shaggy mane. "And when you are done, rinse it clean with clear cold water."
"A task more to my liking." The imp laughed as he shook himself free of the lather. Grasping the bowl with all four limbs he chuckled as he bore it into the air and poured the contents on the barbarian's head.
"Now the rinse," Alodar said, "and then I command you to be gone."
A second rainfall washed the lather free. Without another word, the imp popped from view.
"A petty trick," the subchieftain growled. "Is this what you call the great power of wizardry?"
"As I said," Alodar replied, "the value of the craft lies not only in fear. With the aid of the sprite, I brewed a lotion of alchemy. You head should be free of fleas for at least a fortnight."
The nomad started and then cautiously raised a hand to his head. He ran his fingers through his hair. "There is no more itch," he said slowly.
Vendora rose and walked to Grak's side. "It has a nice scent," she said. "There are others among you who could benefit from it as well."
"Sweetbalm, my lady, there is no time to worry about the control of vermin," Feston grumbled. "We must get on with the task of assembling an army for the south."
Vendora turned to the warrior, frowning in irritation. "Yes, yes, I know, Feston. And through it all I unfailingly must continue to play the part of the queen." She looked at Grak, standing silently with his face an unreadable mask, and then turned to Alodar. "And so you prove your worth once again. No doubt, with these imps we can scout ahead to see what other tribes lie in our path. And produce more gifts of enticement. With your help we may then cross the border with perhaps even two thousand fighters."
"It is as the fair lady says," Alodar replied. At Iron Fist and the shore of the sea, his spirits had soared when she gave him her attention, but this time her manner made him uneasy. He studied her beauty, still dazzlingly apparent through unkempt hair and soiled gown. He glanced at Aeriel and then back to the queen. Yet the logic of what she said was firm enough.
"Then the only issue remaining is the decision of Grak the chieftain," Vendora continued, turning her attention away. She ran the back of her hand down the nomad's arm. "We have tarried a day and offered you much. Do not the rewards of journeying with us outweigh the risks?"
Grak glanced back at his subordinate. He stooped down and rubbed some of the soap between his fingers. He stood again and faced the queen. "And you journey to the cities of the south with these halfmen of yours?"
"I do."
Grak held the soap to his nose, then cast it aside with a grunt. He looked deeply into her eyes. "And also with the tribesmen of Grak," he said at last.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Second Quest ALODAR nudged his mount forward in a slow walk down the dusty street. Aeriel and Handar followed on either side. Grak reined a huge gelding with his right hand and guided Vendora's pony with his left. Grengor and the other suitors brought up the rear.
"I hope that Bardina is large enough to house a decent bath or two," Aeriel said. "The fair lady is not the only one who has become rather testy from such a long journey."
Grengor rubbed at the dirt caked to his stubble of beard. "Yes, to that I fully agree. The barbarian horde may prefer to camp outside the wall, but my back has had enough of sleeping on the hard ground."
"We can stay but a short while," Grak said, looking uncomfortably at the building fronts which pressed in from either side. "The farmlands around will not long provide meat for nearly two thousand mouths, and my people have little taste for your grains."
Vendora ran a hand down the length of her gown. "There is time enough for a change of clothes and to have my tresses properly done," she decided. "After all, if a proud chieftain finally agrees to soap himself, it is a fair return."
"And now that we are back across the border into your realm," Basil said, "we will learn as well how fare our forces to the south."
"More important than that," Handar added, "we will see firsthand how low the barrier between the worlds has become. Even if we are far from the battles where possession is forced, there will be changes that we cannot help but notice. It is like a rock dropped onto a tightly stretched blanket. The maximum depression is where it falls, but the effect is felt even at the edges."
Alodar did not join in the conversation. In silence, he mulled over the events of the past weeks. The recruiting had gone accordi
ng to his expectations. With a cloud of speedy imps, they had found all the tribes within a reasonable distance of their southward trek. Between Basil's gems, Feston's promise of steel weapons from the slain, Grak's endorsements, and his own healing salves, all had been won to the cause. Along with the tale of the enchanted warrior, the nomads now whispered of his great wizardry, of how imps had blown the mosquitoes and gnats away, fused broken stoneware together, and pressed streambed mud into hard slate.
Alodar watched the activity of the street as they moved along, and the contrast with his mental image jogged him out of his reverie. The low buildings on either side crowded close, leaving passage barely a coach wide. Though it was midday, few of the townspeople journeyed outdoors and those marked their passage with sullen jowls and squinting eyes.
Vendora's troops reined up in the town square, scarcely wider than the road on which they had come. It was deserted. Alodar cupped his hands to his mouth to shout out their arrival. "Attend onto the fair lady. The queen of Procolon honors Bardina. Attend her and receive her regal presence."
His words echoed off the walls. For a long moment, no one stirred. Then gradually, in twos and threes, the townspeople began to appear in the doorways of the buildings and narrow alleys between. They shuffled into the square in silence, forming a thin line that surrounded the royal party. Alodar looked rapidly about at the faces which confronted him. In some were apprehension and even a hint of fear, in others hate glowered out of piercing eyes. In none was the excitement that should accompany a visit of the queen.