by Allan Cole
Game was scarce. I could sense small animals about, little burrowing things. But nothing large. Although once I caught the spoor of a large creature that had crossed the trail. The mood of the beast seemed sour and grumbly. Perhaps it was a bear, caught away from his den by the storm.
From time to time we came upon frozen streams, or ponds. At those places I used a trick I’d learned from a nomad to fill our cookpots.
It took no magic to perform the trick, unless you consider the wonders of nature sorcerous. But there was enough guess work involved to edge it close to a wizard’s art.
There are fresh water fish in the far south that are frozen rock solid in the winter. When spring comes they thaw out and they swim away as if nothing had happened. The nomad claimed the fish can remain frozen that way for many years without effect.
The trick was to guess where they’d be beneath all that ice. And then chip away the area and see if you’d guessed right. The nomad said you had to imagine you were a fish yourself and look at the breaks in the banks and the bends in the shallows to see where your favorite fishy hiding place would be.
I guessed wrong the first few times. At the cost of much nasty labor and scowls from my mates who were wondering if perhaps Lady Antero had lost her mind and her good magical sense.
But I worked on, spurred by memories of Gamelan, who was a skilled fisherman himself and used similar methods to catch our finny cousins.
And when we finally struck through to the right place my friends’ scowls turned to broad smiles and loud compliments. A school of about two dozen were in the first find and nearly that number in the second. Then my companions caught on to the trick and it became as certain a dish as if we’d cached supplies in advance of the journey.
Fuel was a constant problem, although we managed well enough picking up bits of brush and frozen grasses as we went. Growth was spotty and sometimes the day would end with nothing but ice over frozen rocks for our beds. A few times, when we were caught out like that, I drew on my magical resources to keep us warm. Other times we actually dug up the frozen animal droppings from the caravan and burned those for heat and cooking.
Water was also not easy to come by. There were no free-running streams and we had to melt ice or snow to get it. This took time we could ill afford and we were continually amazed that such big potsful of snow produced so little liquid.
The magical landscape was as severe as the natural. The dogs of sorcery unleashed by the storm had killed mercilessly. All creatures with any magical senses were slaughtered or crushed no matter how small or innocent.
It may surprise you to know that some plants and even a few lowly worms have small abilities and they can tap into the ethers to sustain their life processes.
For a wizard the ethers are always abuzz with such presences, like insects in a garden. But as we trod that frozen land the ethers seemed silent and lifeless, like a desert is at first glance. Only the spoors and faintly glowing husks of what had been left behind were evident.
Little by little, however, the etherous landscape began to change. I felt magical presences pop back into existence like flowers blooming in the mud after a brutal spring deluge. Like myself, some of my lowly cousins of the sorcerous world had gotten warning and were quick enough to go to ground and remain there until danger passed.
Although the caravan track twisted and turned it generally headed south toward a ragged range of snow-covered mountains.
We experienced a few squalls during the early days of the journey but nothing like the storm that’d nearly killed us. Each time inclement weather arrived I thought our enemy might be returning. We’d hunch down in a gully or dig holes in the snow to shelter us until the storm was over. Within hours the front would have passed over us without any real danger. I began to wonder if I’d been mistaken about the storm that had marooned us. Perhaps it really had been nothing more than an early winter blow.
“Yer’ve never been wrong afore, Me Lady,” Carale said one day, when I’d confessed my doubts.
“Still,” I said, “it makes better sense if this time I was. If there was an enemy behind the storm where is our enemy now? Why hasn’t he come back? Leaped on us with something new and even more deadly?”
Carale shrugged. “Maybe he thinks he’s done the job, Me Lady,” he said. “Yer say yerself tha’ ev’n the smallest critter suffered. So maybe this wizard thinks he’s done all that’s necessary.”
“The question is,” I said, “what did he have in mind besides slaughter?”
“Yer certain he didn’t know we were here, Me Lady?” Carale asked.
I considered a moment, then nodded. “I’m positive,” I said. “That was a blind attack. There was no single target.”
“‘N yer thinks this ice pirate we was after has somethin’ to do wi’ it?” he said.
“I’m not so certain of that,” I said. “The enemy left so sign of identity I could decipher.”
“But yer inclination is t’ suspect the ice pirate?” Carale pressed.
“Yes,” I said. I sounded more sure than I was. But that short flat answer leaped to my tongue without prodding.
“Then tha’s probably who it probably is, then,” Carale said. “Take yer first guess and stick with her is my advice, Me Lady. Works as well as anythin’ else.”
“Yes, but why hasn’t he returned?” I asked.
“Who knows, Me Lady?” Carale said. “‘N does it really matter that much. We’ll find out by and by.”
“There’s another thing,” I said. “It’s nearly winter. Yet the weather still seems mild for these parts.” I gave a rueful laugh. “The cold and gloomy skies we see about us are fair weather down here. More like spring.”
Carale grimaced. “Why look for trouble, Me Lady?” he asked. “Why dare the gods with such questions? Winter’ll be on us soon enough. And if it’s late this year, why let’s bless the gods for favoring us.”
“Somehow,” I grumbled, “I don’t think it’s got anything to do with favors, especially from the gods.”
Carale’s eyebrows shot up. “Yer think there’s magic behind that as well, Me Lady?” he asked, worried.
I shook my head, exasperated. “I don’t know,” I said. “And that’s what’s troubling me the most. I just plain don’t know.”
Carale clapped my shoulder. “Cheer up, Me Lady,” he said. “We’ll find out soon enough... One way or th’ other.”
He poked at the fire with a twig, suddenly gloomy. “Still,” he said, “I’d feel much better if I had a deck under me feet. I’d not be revealin’ a deep personal secret to yer, Me Lady, if I told yuz I don’t much like walkin’.”
I smiled. It was the old argument between sailors and soldiers.
“I admit I’ve grown to love the sea,” I said. “But I was a soldier too long to trust my fate to a small enclosed space.”
“Aye, yer’ve said that afore, Me Lady,” Carale said. “But yer’ll have to admit we can’t walk home.”
“No,” I said, “that’s true. But think what would have happened if we’d have remained on the Tern instead of being on land. We’d have been dead along with the others. No ship could have survived that storm.”
Carale pursed his lips, considering. Then he said, “Tha’ may be true. But we’ll never know, will we, Me Lady? I’ve always trusted in me seaman’s skills and they’ve never failed me yet.”
He rubbed one of his feet, wincing when he hit a sore spot. “Th’ gods had a most evil sense of humor when they gave us these, me lady,” he said. “Clubby, ugly things. Nothin’ so ugly as a foot if yer thinks on it. ‘N yer toes are so tender, like twigs. Yer can break ‘em. Yer can freeze ‘em. Yer can plain wear ‘em out.
“If a deck timber goes bad, yer can just patch it up with a piece of good wood. Can’t do that with toes.”
“No, you can’t,” I agreed. “But you can put your shoes on and run like the hells,” I said.
Carale nodded. “Yer right, Me Lady,” he said. “But yer can’t
run very far. Th’ hells catch up to yuz quick enough when yer afoot.”
Several weeks out we came upon a frozen oasis.
There was nothing to mark it at first. A storm seemed to be brewing beyond the horizon and the sky was an eerie swirl of thick gray and black clouds, making visibility difficult. All color had been reduced to bleak whites and grays and blacks, making us feel like insects crawling across a page of ink-blotched parchment. We’d been marching for hours and were looking for a place to rest our weary bones.
We came upon a valley sheltered by broad shouldered hills of volcanic rock. The caravan track led through a parting between two of those hills and we followed it to a place where another trail intersected and seemed to blend in. From all signs the second trail seemed to have been made by another caravan. The track was fresher than the first but not by much.
Although we entered the valley with caution it was only good habit that bade us to do so, for there was no sign of life.
If it weren’t for the trail we might have missed the squat building in the center of the valley. It was covered with snow and looked like just another small hill to pass by. The caravan track led directly to the building, curving around to the south side where we found an entrance, more of a broad tunnel than a door or gate. The archway was of dark, hand-hewn stone blocks.
We chipped away ice and snow and found that the rest of the building seemed to be made of the same material. We went inside, threading our way through a series of cantilevered walls that I guessed had been thrown up to block winds coming from that direction. The deeper we went, the stronger became the stale smell of animals and the more sour odor of unwashed humans.
About halfway down the passage dim lights winked on. The light came from little piles of crystals heaped in small stone cups that were set in niches in the tunnel walls. After inspecting them I saw the crystals were similar to the stuff we make our firebeads from. Only our presence was needed to set them alight, much like the way we light the gloomier recesses of our own public buildings in Orissa.
As we entered the low-vaulted central chamber light bloomed from overhead. The chamber was about the size of a dockside warehouse. The walls and floor were all of dark stone but the stone had been stained and badly worn from many years of use - centuries was my guess. The ceiling funneled upward into what I assumed was an elaborate chimney that would draw out any smoke yet wouldn’t allow the raw elements to get in.
On one side was a large stone corral where the caravan animals had been kept. I noted there were plenty of old droppings littering the corral, assuring us of fuel. There were two main sleeping areas evident, with raised stone pallets for perhaps a hundred or more people. Many of the pallets had little warming ovens built into them. All you had to do was heap your bedclothes on top, stuff in the fuel, set it alight, wait until the pallet got nice and warm, then crawl into your blankets for a blissful sleep.
All of us immediately saw their purpose. We were drawn to them greatly, as if by a spell, but we pressed on in our exploration, although for a time there was so much yawning and gaping that Donarius said we all looked like “a great lot of lazy camels.”
There were alcoves of various sizes opening into the chamber with raised stone platforms set inside. We guessed they were used to store caravan goods in, although all we could find were a few broken leather harnesses and a frayed belt with its buckle removed. In one chamber we found a split sack of grain. Lizard immediately started scooping the grain up and we all had visions of hot porridge for dinner.
We kept circling, spying out this sign and that. When we’d nearly completed the circle I caught a sudden whiff of sorcery. I waved the others back and moved forward, all my senses alert.
I came upon a room with an odd-shaped entrance easily twice my height and breadth. I stood back from the entrance a moment, puzzling at the shape. Then I realized that it was formed like a rearing bear with outstretched claws.
I entered, wary and sniffing about for a wizard’s trap.
The room was empty.
Then on the far wall I saw chains. Hanging from those chains was a corpse.
I looked closer, trying to ignore the gross mutilations that’d been inflicted on the body.
Tears welled up when I saw the familiar clothes.
They were Orissan.
I was saddened but hardly shocked. I’d been worried that we’d encounter such a thing ever since we’d left AnteroBay.
The only surprise was that Searbe seemed to have put up a struggle before he’d been killed. I was angry at myself for misjudging the Evocator. He’d been tortured by our enemies but had apparently refused to aid them.
The others helped me get the body down and respectfully laid out. The men muttered at the treatment Searbe had suffered and I knew if we caught up to the guilty party there’d be more than professional enthusiasm in the fight. I sent them all away to make camp, except for Carale, who stayed behind to help me get the body ready for burial.
We worked at this grisly task in silence for a time. Then Carale scratched his head and murmured, “... seems t’ have shrunk a bit.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
Carale gestured at the body. “Wasn’t Lord Searbe taller, Me Lady?” he said. “Had a pot belly on him too. Liked his dram ‘n a brew, he did. Don’t mean t’ be disrespectful of th’ dead but he bent his elbow more like an old tavern lush ‘stead of a wizard.”
I smiled forgiveness. “He’d of likely lost the gut to exercise and short rations,” I said.
“Tha’s true, Me Lady,” Carale said. “But he wouldn’t a gotten shorter, would he, now?”
I looked at the corpse’s features again. Although mutilated they still looked familiar. Then I checked the rest of the body. Gradually it began to dawn on me that Carale was right.
Searbe had been a little over six foot. He also had a long trunk and short stubby legs with feet so small that he seemed to stagger when he walked - sort of a mincing stagger, actually, like a blowzy washerwoman trying to act like a delicate milkmaid.
The body I was studying was a good two hands shorter, was split high, and the feet were proportional to his size.
Still, he looked familiar. Just as the few remnants of magical energy lingering about the corpse were familiar. This was definitely the corpse of an Orissan Evocator.
It was then that the delayed shock hit.
“It ain’t Lord Searbe, is it, Me Lady?” Carale growled.
“No,” I said, low.
“It’s th’ Evocator from th’ other outpost, ain’t it?” he said. “I was there when yer dropped him off. Lord Serano, was his name. Little feller. Bold he was. Heart like a lion.”
“Yes,” I answered. “It’s Serano all right.”
“Now we know for sure,” Carale continued, “tha’ th’ other outpost was hit. ‘N mos’ probably destroyed. Not only tha’, but everybody was killed, ‘cept for th’ Evocator. Just like at AnteroBay. An’ him they took captive.”
I made no reply. Carale tenderly tucked the ragged parka around Serano’s brutalized features.
“Poor bastard,” he said. “He was a brave one, he was.”
We gave him the best rites we could under the circumstances. I led the others in prayer that Serano’s ghost would find peace in the afterlife if such a thing exists. And we heaped rocks over his body since it was impossible to dig a grave.
Then we withdrew to a campfire Lizard had built near the sleeping platforms. He was making dinner and the area was filled with the rich odor of porridge made from the grain the previous occupants had left behind.
It was bran, might even have been meant to feed the animals, but it tasted like nectar to us. While we ate I conferred with each of the men, adding what they had found to my own discoveries.
Then I said, “Here’s what I believe happened, and please feel free to stop me if you think I have something wrong.”
The men nodded, so I continued.
“Both of our trading posts were attacked
and wiped out. In each case the attack came from the sea. But we know they were probably carefully timed because caravans soon came on the scene. The attackers captured and then handed over both of our Evocators, Lord Searbe and Lord Serano.
“The two caravans then struck out for this oasis. From all evidence the one carrying Lord Searbe reached here first, with the other caravan arriving no more than a day or so later.”
“Is that the way you two see it?” I asked the twins.
They both said this was so, adding that the two groups camped here for some time. At least a month.
“Which means,” I said, “they were waiting out the storm. If it were only one group, I’d say they were lucky to reach here in time. But since there were two, and the timing of the attack and the journey was so close, I’d suspect they knew the storm was coming and made for this place as fast as they could. If this is true, it was a prearranged meeting at a predetermined time.