The Warrior Returns: Far Kingdoms #4 (The Far Kingdoms)

by Allan Cole

Carale stroke his chin. “Do yer suppose there really be such riches in that place, Me Lady?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But remember those emeralds they showed us. Flawless and big as a fist. The chief said he’d gotten them in trade from the tribe that lives in that area.”

  Carale laughed. “I remember well, Me Lady. Th’ chief said we’d best stay clear of th’ place. Nothin’ but savages, he said. Wicked fellers. Look at strangers t’ see if they be fat ‘nough for the village stew pot.”

  The memory made me laugh as well. The chief who had so deplored the savage habits of the People Of The Falls had red fangs tattooed on his lips, horns similarly applied to his shaven skull and when we’d greeted him in his hide tent he was stark naked - sporting a large golden pin inserted through his penis.

  “My brother warned me about such talk,” I said. “He told me every merchant soon learns that no matter how murderous your customers appear, they’ll claim the real savages are just up the river or across the next desert.”

  Carale nodded. “Good way t’ make certain they’ll al’as be the middle man, I s’pose. Gotter deal with them if yer wants th’ goods.”

  “Maybe next time,” I said, “we’ll go look at those falls. We’ll see for ourselves just how mean those people are. My bet is we’ll be treated like visiting royalty. And they’ll be sizing us up for fatter profits instead of tender joints for their stew.”

  Carale turned serious. “Do yer think they’ll be a next time, Me Lady?” he asked. “What with this pirate traipsing about with his giants and all? Might put a pinch in th’ trade prospects.”

  “We’ll take care of him soon enough,” I said.

  It amazes me now that I honestly believed that at the time. What a stupid woman I was. Or, if not stupid, so naïve that it bordered on stupidity.

  “I don’t care what kind of forces this fellow has at his disposal,” I said. “Be they men or magic. This whole region has been benefiting from the trade we’ve opened up.

  “Once we get our people out of those trading posts my brother can don his diplomatic cloak and talk to our friends about unified action against this so-called Ice Bear King. It won’t be the first time - or the last, I suspect - that my brother’s dealt with such matters. And they’ve always worked out before.”

  “That’s true as me dear wife’s heart, Me Lady,” Carale said. “But like yer said, first we gotter pluck our friends outter harm’s way.”

  Although the pirates had fallen for my ruse it wouldn’t be that easy to get past them. If we steered a straight course for AnteroBay, the first of the outposts, they’d be straddling our path. The best way would be to merely swing wide around them, make a dash for the outposts and follow the same route back.

  Carale immediately spotted the problem with that plan. “It’s gettin’ late in th’ year t’ try t’ just evade ‘em, Me Lady,” he said. “Storm season’s almos’ on us. Longer we take, more likely it’ll be tha’ we’ll run into trouble. We might be prayin’ t’ th’ gods tha’ it’s only pirates we had t’ worry about.”

  In our present position we were still in the more mild zones. If we sailed due west the land we’d see wouldn’t be much different than one would expect during winter in Orissa. The winters last much longer but there were trees and sleeping vegetation waiting under the snow for the spring thaw.

  Farther south, however, little grew except thorny grasses. I’ve never seen a budding plant below the peninsula. And grasses soon gave way to naked frozen rock where the only green that could exist seemed to be a kind of slimy moss in the more sheltered tide pools.

  It was not only eternally winter in those regions, but the most vicious winter conditions you could ever imagine. The storms were the stuff of horrid myths they tell around campfires. And the demons who arrive with those storms, I’d been told, were the most evil and powerful demons of all.

  At the time I didn’t know how accurate those tales were but I wasn’t anxious to find out

  Carale and I had no choice but to lay out a course that would take us dangerously close to the waiting pirates. The trick, however, wouldn’t be slipping past our human enemy. That’d be easy enough for a captain as skilled as Carale.

  It was our enemy’s magical allies that most worried me.

  The sorcerous net that’d been spread for us was as powerful as anything I’d ever encountered. It was the raw force I’d sensed the night before. A force that possessed none of the elegance of our own Evocators.

  But raw and primitive as that net seemed I knew it would be difficult to evade.

  The day was gray when we approached - as gray as a pot freshly dipped in pewter. The sea and sky presented a swirling surface that turned back all vision, leaving us feeling flat, without substance.

  The only sound was the slap of water under our bows and the flap and snap of our sails. The fog was so thick it seemed to swallow those sounds until all seemed no more than a ghostly rustle.

  I could feel the tingling edges of the sorcerer’s net and whispered directions to Carale to take us this way or that as we skirted the danger zone.

  I’d raised the mist with an elementary spell, so simple I was sure my enemy wouldn’t notice. Beneath the spell I’d laid in another thin blanket of sorcery that dulled curiosity rather than turning it aside.

  If a wizard’s suspicions were aroused by some accident, such as when the twins dropped a spar, my spell presented a boring answer to the wizard’s probing. In that case I made the thunk of wood seem like the pop of a wave against a rocky shoal.

  The great flaw inherent in spells of that sort, and the main reason they are rarely used, is that they also blind the wizard who casts them.

  In other words, I was as magically sightless as my enemy.

  We weren’t only dodging the pirates that day but gingerly threading our way through the barren chain of small islands that sat off the peninsula’s coast.

  My crew’s abilities were stretched to the limit as we crept through the mist, all eyes peeled for the sudden appearance of jagged black rock poking out of the water.

  When I thought we were opposite the river that led to the fabled emerald beds I got out the small ship model Donarius had carved during the week’s voyage. It was a rough approximation of the Tern, about the length of a pike and two hands wide.

  Fixed to the deck was an emerald earring from my jewelry chest. It was a small sacrifice for such a purpose. Besides I’d lost its sister long ago.

  I poised at the rail, ship model in hand, and formed my spell song:

  “We are treasure seekers

  Hungry for riches that wait beyond.

  Stones of gleaming green,

  Jewels fit for a king’s crown,

  Will soon fill our purses

  And the taverns will ring,

  And the maids will swoon

  At such brave rich fellows as we.”

  I cast the ship model into the water. A wave caught it, bowling it over, and I held my breath until it righted itself. When it finally did the little craft slowly turned until its bow was pointing in the right direction.

  I whispered a second spell and the miniature Tern bobbed away, disappearing into the gloom.

  We waited for an hour or more. The hiss of the seas, the rattle of ice against our hull and the far off cry of a gull made the wait seem much longer.

  Suddenly I reeled back as a blast of sorcerous glee shattered the calm. The ship model had tripped the magical trap.

  Then I heard real shouts roil the mist as the pirate crews were alerted. The shouts were followed by barked orders from the pirate officers and all was silent again.

  Their goal, I knew, would be to follow what they believed to be the real Tern to the source of all those emeralds my men had boasted about in Pisidia.

  Then the wizard’s net was dropped. Moments later we heard the muffled sounds of what the pirates believed was a stealthy pursuit.

  My trick had worked. The enemy had been drawn away by a model s
hip and a single, emerald posted on a lonely earring that had no value other than sentiment I’d long forgotten.

  I gave quiet orders and we set sail for the first outpost. If the gods did not fail us we’d be there in a few days.

  We came on AnteroBay at dawn. A spectacular sunrise made the whole coastline glow in welcome. Our expectations were high as we rounded the bend. We were all eager to see our comrades and those who weren’t busy with other duties leaned out over the rail, eyes hungry to take in the view.

  I expected to see fields of tall yellow grass spreading from shore to shore, waving in the chilly breeze. In the center would be the dock. Ringing that dock would be the two dozen or more sleepy homes that housed our friends.

  When last I saw them they’d completed their quarters and were proud of the colorful roofs of bright green and red and blue they’d added to remind them of home. At this hour I knew a few early risers would be about. My nose twitched for the smells of good Orissan breakfasts sizzling on the hearth fires.

  But the gods had not been so kind.

  Our luck had changed.

  My heart lurched as we closed in on the settlement. Spread out before us were the smoking ruins of disaster.

  The outpost at AnteroBay had been overwhelmed and burned.

  The scene was ghastly - fit to wrench a soul from its moorings. That it was entirely bloodless made it more ghastly still. The ruins were still warm from the fires that’d swept the outpost. There were no bodies but there were the white ash outlines of where bodies had once been. Only chimneys stood, fingers of stark stone poking through the smoking ruins.

  In the black pebbled core of the homes we found shards of exploded clay jars, runnels of tin from trunks that had melted in the heat, a speck of gold and silver here and there from what had once been jewelry and bits of bright-colored tile from the roofs.

  We were silent as we combed through the ruins for some sign of what’d happened to our friends.

  My first discovery was that the fire had not been caused by natural means. I quickly sensed, then confirmed that the source was arsonous magic.

  Also, there were bootprints among the ashes, so many it was difficult to pick out one from the other. But we had no doubt that a large force of soldiers had come through.

  As we investigated the remains I saw tears in the eyes of my shipmates and once I heard Lizard sob. He was examining a twisted kettle that contained the rock-hard remains of what appeared to be a traditional porridge. None of us thought the less of him for his display of emotion. For as we stood there in that desolation it felt as if the blow had been against Orissa herself. A home away from home had been defiled, its citizens terrorized and slain.

  There was a nip to the air but the skies were clear, making the desolation seem even more stark. We’d come dressed for the chill, donning furs and warm water resistant boots. A mild wind brushed away a few wisps of smoke that rose from the larger heaps of rubble.

  Carale and I poked through one of the smoky areas - the main trading center where the guards slept. Just as in the other sites, there were no signs of a struggle, only the white outlines of men and women who had died and burned in their sleep.

  Adjoining the barracks was the weapons room. It shared a common fireplace with the barracks and was built of stone. The stone walls had been blasted apart by the fire and the weapons were a melted mass on those stones. The chimney and fireplace still stood, easily twice the size of the hearths in the burned out homes. The fireplace was double-sided and a low wind whispered through the opening.

  The only sign of life was an hysterical dog that crept out from nearby rocks and barked and howled at us without stop. Donarius, who had a soft spot for animals, tried to calm him but suffered a slashed arm in the process.

  The dog was so stricken by whatever had occurred here that he couldn’t be consoled. He would not eat, would not drink, but only howled incessantly. When he had no more strength for that he cowered in the ashes trembling so hard we thought he’d break his bones.

  Donarius finally killed him out of kindness. After that it was many hours before he could speak again.

  Down by the charred heaps of what had been the docks we found scores of footprints in the mud where the attackers had disembarked. These were much clearer than the others. There were also the heavy marks of longboats, at least half-a-dozen of them.

  The enemy had come by sea.

  Carale put his boot alongside one of the footprints. They were about the same size.

  “Weren’t giants this time, Me Lady,” he said. “Unless we got giants with very small feet.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “After all, how many giants can there be? When the gods made them large they kept their numbers sensibly small. I doubt if there’s enough in all the known world to make up a city the size of Orissa.”

  “What’s sensible abou’ it, Me Lady?” Carale protested. “There was no sense to makin’ giants in th’ first place. And in th’ second... why it’s plain daft, I say. Daft!”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you were a giant, my friend,” I murmured.

  Carale didn’t hear. He was puzzling over the footprints.

  “What’s this, Me Lady?” he said, pointing at an area near the shore.

  I looked closer, saw the mass of confused prints and almost turned back to ask Carale what in the hells did he mean. Then I saw the pointed toe outline leap clear from the muddle. On the heel was the symbol of the Evocator’s Guild. I bent down, waved a hand over a set of pointy prints and felt a faint magical tingle. I knew the scent.

  “They be Evocator’s prints, Me Lady -‘less I’ve gone as daft and blind as th’ gods,” Carale said.

  “You’re right,” I said. “And from the scent of them they were made by none other than Lord Searbe. The Evocator I left in charge.”

  “Don't look like he put up much of a fight,” Carale observed. Then he hastened to say, “‘Course he probably had a sword point at his throat.”

  I nodded, although I knew threats probably hadn’t been necessary.

  Searbe had been a bit of a disappointment. Like me he’d come late to wizardry. Like me he’d started his adult life as a soldier. He had a big personality - big voice, rough manners and as plain spoken as anyone could ask.

  He made much over honor and seemed to live by that code. I’d quite liked him, had been refreshed by his lack of social graces and frank way of speaking. It was quite a change from the dry lordly types who usually became Evocators. So when Searbe volunteered to head one of the outposts I’d enthusiastically agreed.

  But when I’d landed him at AnteroBay he’d instantly taken on such a self-important air with all the ordinary workers that I’d felt it necessary to admonish him. He’d apologized profusely, said he didn’t know what’d overcome him. I’d accepted his apology.

  But after I’d left I’d thought of him from time to time and wondered if I’d made a mistake. Such a prickly and bombastic personality, which on reflection also seemed self centered – and, now that I thought more on it, quite childish - might make life difficult for others in such conditions.

  As I stared at the prints that doubt came crawling back. If I’d been mistaken then it could be a very large error, indeed. If a man like Searbe - who made such a point of honor - was all a bluff, then I had a weasel to deal with, not a man.

  And if so, that weasel was in the hands of the enemy.

  His footprints, along with four other pair, broke away from the others and trailed along the shoreline. The prints were flanked by the other sets, apparently those of his guards. But the boot marks were so widely spaced that the guard seemed casual. The prints were heavy, with iron-edged bootheels and single spiked tips, scooping down like a cat’s extended claw, and cutting into the mud or scraping the mossy rocks.

  The shore and the prints curved into a broad field of the tall yellow grass that favors that region. It’s thick and saw-toothed and seems to thrive on the frigid winter blasts. Several animals - includi
ng a large flightless bird - make their nests in that grass. When we came to the field I saw the grass had been flattened and was littered with still smoky campfires and mounds of animal dung.

  “It looks like a large caravan of some sort camped here, Captain,” I said to Carale.

  He scratched his head. “Aye, Me Lady, tha’s so.” He looked back at the docks where we’d seen the marks of the enemy boats. “Seems they was two groups of ‘em. One come from the sea. Th’ other traveled by land t’ meet ‘em.”

  “And for some reason,” I said, “the group that came by sea handed our Evocator over to the caravan. I see Searbe’s footprints lead into this field but for the life of me I don’t see them coming back out.”