by David Grace
Dazed, head spinning, Grantin lay panting and gasping for air. So addled was his brain that it was several minutes before he realized that he had come to a halt. The nightmare flight was over. There ahead of him stretched a green-blue vista as far as the eye could -- the streams and forests of the borderlands. Beyond them lay the Gogol empire itself.
Chapter Sixteen
Commencing with his toes and working upward, Grantin began a cautious examination of his limbs. With mild surprise he discovered that his body, even if sore, bruised, and aching, was more or less whole.
Behind him lay wave upon wave of rolling foothills, and beyond them the granite vastness of the Guardian Mountains. To his left and right were scrubby tree-strewn barrens without a hint of water, cultivation, or settlement. Only in front did there appear to be habitation which might afford Grantin a few mean necessities of life. Off in the distance he thought he detected a crinkle in the forest which he took to be the sign of a meandering river.
Somewhat uncertainly Grantin stumbled down the hill and across the green-yellow grassland. The grass, tough desiccated fibers five or six inches long, bent and flattened reluctantly beneath Grantin's boots. Near its base the vegetation was interwoven into a tough springy mat.
Pyra rode high in the sky. Grantin estimated the time to be approximately the fourth hour. Soon sweat stained his forehead, cheeks, and palms. In response to the appearance of the salty fluid hordes of mites and flies arose from the soil.
Parched, hungry, and frustrated beyond endurance, Grantin carelessly swatted at the creatures and cursed them in a rasping voice. Quick as thought the powerstone seized the feeble energies created by Grantin's unplanned spell, channeled them, amplified them, then loosed them on the countryside in a nerve-shattering display.
The air was suddenly filled with an electric tension like the calm before a thunderstorm. Ahead of him a vortex began to form, not the whirlpool of a tornado but rather a transparent cylinder parallel to the ground. Ten feet in diameter and seventy long, this tube of air rotated with ever increasing speed. In only a few moments its shape was sharply defined by the dust, twigs, bits of grass, and thousands of flies which it had sucked up along its length. Like a huge spinning pipe it rolled ahead of Grantin in the direction in which he had been walking and gained speed and power until, only a hundred yards distant, it ripped out the faded yellow grasses and proceeded to roll up a strip of the meadow as easily as a householder might take up a rug. Shortly the juggernaut was more than a mile distant and, passing over a low rise, disappeared from view.
In equal parts pleased, amazed, and horrified by the powers he had loosed, Grantin ambled forward down his now vermin-free trail.
Obviously, the powerstone was useful, but very dangerous. It occurred to Grantin that the tempest he had unleashed could just as easily have rolled backward over him. A sorcerer loosed a spell like a man pushing a rock over the edge of a palisade. Once freed it moved onward of its own mindless power, beyond control until its energy was spent. Grantin warned himself that he must exercise iron control over his movements and speech. A momentary slip, an instant of forgetfulness, and he might create a field of energy which would devour him. Chastened, yet pleased at the elimination of the bugs, Grantin walked over the rise and then down the visibly narrowing path toward the forest where the whirlwind finally disappeared.
Once inside the glade Grantin noticed a tang of water in the air, the reek of mold and growing vegetation, the zesty pungence of gingerberry trees. Only a few hundred yards beyond the edge of the forest the trail opened by Grantin's cyclone became erratic in the extreme. The force of the wind spent itself against the sturdy trunks. The trail soon narrowed to ten feet, then five, two, then none. In its death throes the cyclone had meandered through the woods like a maddened snake. Less than half a mile from the edge of the forest, Grantin was confronted by a barrier of limbs marking the site of the expiration of the whirlwind.
Grantin struggled through the underbrush, determined to proceed forward in as straight a line as possible until he struck the river which he felt sure must lie somewhere ahead. In spite of his best efforts he soon found himself enclosed ahead and on both sides by a field grown rampant with thorns. Wheezing, he looked behind him. So thick was the underbrush that he could not even detect the trail he had followed.
Perhaps, Grantin thought, just the smallest, tiniest of spells might effectively clear the way for him again. Nothing so grand as the cyclone, of course, just a mild injunction to the thorns and branches to swing out of his way. His left arm extended, hand balled into a fist, the bloodstone pointing directly ahead of him, Grantin whispered the words "Out of my way!"
To the accompaniment of a great thunderclap a huge mallet of force smashed against Grantin's outstretched arm. The force of the blow lifted Grantin and propelled him backward, his body tearing a thirty-foot long tunnel through the underbrush. Stunned, scraped, and bleeding, he landed with a thud. Apparently somewhere ahead had stood a tree or a hill, or a boulder too massive to be moved, so instead of Grantin remaining stationary and the objects in front of him slipping aside, the objects remained stationary and it was Grantin against whom the energy of the spell was released.
Resigned to his fate, Grantin stood, brushed himself off, and studied the foliage for some clue to the direction in which he should proceed. To his left a family of hoppers cluttered as they searched the tamarack trees for clumps of fresh puffballs. Ahead and to his right he detected what might be the sound of rushing water. Pulling apart two small saplings, he edged off through the forest. After he had advanced only a hundred yards or so the sound of the stream retreated, but Grantin's persistence was rewarded, for there he stumbled across a narrow but well-used trail. Almost a road, the ground was rutted, green at the humped center with grass and forest herbs.
Now so turned around that he had no conception of where he was going or where he had been, Grantin hesitated a moment and then, for no good reason, turned right and tramped on down the road. The noontime sun penetrated the clefts between the trees. Here the air was warmer and less damp than in the forest main.
Except for a renewed throbbing in the index finger of his left hand, Grantin's position seemed to have improved immeasurably since the beginning of his wild ride. He even happened past a jelly-apple tree and treated himself to six or seven of the immature fruits. True, occasionally the landscape wavered as if a silken curtain had been laid down in front of his eyes, but Grantin did his best to ignore those incidents.
By almost imperceptible degrees the trail grew wider - and subtly assumed a more well-traveled appearance. By and by the trail entered a sweeping left-hand curve at the end of which the bordering forest fell away. The road debouched into a wide meadow dotted at the far end with a series of crude low huts. Beyond the huts swirled the river whose presence Grantin had sensed for several hours.
Increasingly conscious of the burning thirst in his throat and the yawning pit where his stomach once lay, Grantin increased his pace almost to a trot. For some reason the huts looked strange to him. The construction was crude, barely more than bundles of twigs cemented with mounds of dry mud and covered with leaves from the salad trees. The settlement seemed deserted, and a nagging fear began to play on Grantin's mind. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.
He slowed his pace, then stopped to scrutinize the town. Here and there he saw a few dogs but no inhabitants. One of the dogs, obviously a descendant of the original basset hounds brought down in the Lillith, waddled forward and entered a hut some hundred yards away. It was then that Grantin realized what was odd about the village. The structures were small, tiny by human standards. From a distance he had been unable to perceive their true size. Now he noticed that with the exception of one building at the far end of the lane, the biggest of the hovels was barely three feet tall. Each of them was in perfect proportion for its inhabitants, however. Here was something Grantin had heard about but never personally seen, a community of Fane's mutated, intell
igent dogs.
Cautiously Grantin resumed his trek. As he neared the first hut a howling sounded behind him. At once four of the husky creatures bounded from nearby structures and arrayed themselves so as to bar Grantin's passage. At their highest point the dogs reached barely eighteen inches from the ground, but nevertheless Grantin came to a swift halt
Grantin contrived to put as friendly a face on his appearance as possible.
"Good afternoon, friend dogs," he began. "It's a fine village you have here. What do you call it?"
One of the animals crept forward, his nose a few inches in front of the rest, and loosed a series of yips and low growls.
"I'm sorry, my friends, but you have me at a distinct disadvantage. I'm just a poor wanderer. If the truth be known I'm a bit lost. Tell me, though, do you understand human speech--perhaps one bark for yes and two for no?"
Only a stony silence greeted Grantin's remarks. No tails wagged, and on two muzzles skin pulled back to reveal gleaming ivory teeth.
"Surely, now, you wouldn't begrudge a hungry man a bite of food and shelter for the evening? Perhaps you have some chores I could perform in return? There must be quite a few tasks which even those fine paws of yours are unable to handle. Heavy work?" Grantin suggested, caricaturing a man lifting a weighty object. "Perhaps something that requires a bit of height?" Grantin stood on tiptoe and raised his arms above his head, pantomiming someone stretching and straining to place an object at a great elevation.
One of the dogs mumbled a few yips and whines to his fellows, and shortly the dogs' teeth were concealed. Apparently a bit of Grantin's message had penetrated, but still the tails did not wag nor did the bassets step aside. On the other hand they made no move to chase Grantin away.
Resigned to the situation, Grantin lay down in a clump of moss at the edge of the road to see what would happen next. The vegetation was springy and soft and exuded a fresh scent of minty herbs. The air was clean and warm. Folding his hands beneath his head, Grantin lay back and for a moment closed his eyes. After what seemed only an instant a squawking voice startled him from his reverie.
"You there, fellow. What's your name and what're you doing here?"
Grantin jumped to his feet and whirled around, blinking his eyes, looking for his interrogator.
"I said, what's your name and what're you doing here?" In the middle of the road Grantin spied a shriveled old woman, curled steel-gray hair protruded from her skull like handfuls of metal springs. Her face was all bulges and hollows, bulbous nose, sunken cheeks, protruding cheekbones and chin, sallow neck, sunken eyes, and beetling brow. Though slightly more than five feet in height, the body under her soiled calico jumper seemed firm and well fleshed. All in all, an imposing, peculiar sight.
"Good afternoon, madam. My name is Grantin, and as I was telling your friends the dogs, though I fear they don't understand me, I'm a poor traveler who has lost his way. Spying this quaint little village, I had hoped for hospitality."
"Traveler, huh? And where might it be that you're traveling from?"
"Oh, over that way," Grantin said, waving his hand in a random direction. "When I entered the forest I became disoriented and I've quite lost my bearings. I come from a little town called Alicon where I live with my uncle. Unfortunately he and I had a minor disagreement, and I decided to see a bit of the world and, perhaps, return later when he was in a better humor."
"A likely story if I ever heard one. Where are you planning on going to?"
"No place special. Here and there. Hither and yon. Wherever an honest man might find work, excitement, new sights, knowledge. If the truth be known, my uncle thinks himself something of a wizard. I had it in my mind that I might take training with some master sorcerer and so upon my return I might show my uncle that he is not as great a wizard as he seems to think. I don't suppose there are any sorcerers in this vicinity to whom I might turn for instruction?"
The old woman fixed Grantin with a hard, calculating stare, then, apparently having come to some decision, she shrugged her shoulders and commenced a hoot-, yip-, and bark-filled conversation with Grantin's welcoming committee.
At the conclusion of her remarks, the lead basset emitted two peremptory woofs, then he and his fellows stood aside, opening the trail to the center of the village. Cautiously Grantin stepped forward. The old woman walked by his side and, unbidden, began to speak.
"You'll have to excuse my friends the dogs, this be wild country, as you might well know. Strangers often carry bad luck with them like clouds bringing rain. My name is Sara, and in our tongue the dogs call this place Catlet. Why? Don't ask me, for I don't know. That's just the name they gave it--strange, queer creatures that they are."
"Do you live here, then?" Grantin asked.
"Yes, indeed I do. It's as good a place as an old woman like me can find in her final years. That little house down the end is mine, the only one in town big enough for a real person. Oh, the dogs aren't bad. I help them out with the things that they need a human to do: lifting, carrying, work too fine for their paws, and heavy jobs. There's always a human, someone like me, in any dog village. They couldn't survive without us. It's not too bad a life. They catch food for me and bring in firewood. They give me everything I need, and protection, too. They're fierce fighters, oh, yes, they are. You wouldn't know it just to see them there wagging their tails, but you don't want to get them down on you. Those teeth are sharp, those jaws strong, and their claws can take the bark right off a tree or the flesh off your bones. But, as I said, this is a wild place. The Gogols hold their councils not fifty leagues to the west."
"Where are we, then?" Grantin inquired. "I'm thoroughly turned around. In fact, I was hoping that someone here might have a map."
"A map! Ha, that's a good one. The dogs with a map. They always know where they are, and if they don't then they don't care. Oh, I'd like to see one of them draw a map, with a piece of charcoal in his teeth perhaps, that would be a fine sight. No, no--no map, but I'll tell you where you are. You're in the borderlands, the Grenitch Wood. This forest extends from eighty leagues to the south of us, thirty to the north, and another twenty-five leagues wide. That's the Black Pearl River there. Deep and silent and cold it is, too. These are the outlands where even the Gogols don't try to enforce their rule.
"In these woods you'll find every brigand, thief, and vagabond between Hartford and Cicero. Here they all come, between two worlds, too far for the Hartfords to pursue and not worth the trouble of the Gogols to wrinkle out of the forest. They've tried, they've tried, but there are more than a few wizards here as well. The woods are strong with a magic of their own. Many a deacon has met his end in these dark grottos. That's why I stay here with the dogs. They protect me, don't you know."
"I'm sure it's a satisfactory life here with the dogs, Sara, but tell me the truth. We're not really in danger now, are we? Surely there's nothing that you have that any of these minor bandits could want, no offense intended."
"I have my life, don't I? And my body. There's always a wizard who could use a replacement piece or two. No, there are dangerous men out there, but don't worry-- you're safe here. The brigands leave the dogs alone. That's the order and the custom. Even the bandit Yon Diggery himself has decreed that the dogs shall be unharmed. They all know the value of the dogs."
"And what is the value of the dogs?" Grantin whispered conspiratorially.
"Why, the cats, of course."
"The cats?"
"Yes, indeed, the cats. Everyone knows about the cats. You mean to say you don't?"
"Perhaps I've forgotten. Why don't you tell me again?"
"Why, the cats are the spies of the Gogols. Sneaking, slinking around, they try to find out our secrets, discover our fetishes, our fanes, our talismans, the sources of our power. If the cats were left alone, they'd infest the area. With the knowledge they brought back the Gogols might make an end to us once and for all. No, the bandits are very much against the cats, and so the dogs have safe-conduct. As long as I help t
he dogs I, too, am safe. Well, what say you, young Master Grantin? How do you like Catlet?"
"Very nice, very fine indeed. I am most pleased that you have persuaded our friends to allow me to visit for a short while. By the way, do you suppose that we might make some arrangements for dinner? I'd be happy to help out in order to earn my meal."
"A guest work? Nonsense! Don't think about it twice. Of course you're welcome to dinner. You can smell the stew boiling even now. A fine big stew, plenty for all."
"Stew. Excellent!" Grantin exclaimed. "May I inquire as to the type of stew it is--beef, or lamb, or ground hen?"
"What kind? Why, young Master Grantin, cat stew, of course!"
A sour grimace spread across Grantin's face. Still, his hunger being what it was, he continued with Sara down the main street of Catlet toward the fire where the stew bubbled in a large iron pot.
Neither Sara nor Grantin nor the bassets noticed anything unusual. No one spied the rustle of grass in the tussocks at the edge of the forest. The brief glitter of sunlight from a shiny lens went unseen. Slowly, inch by inch, the watcher, covered with scent killer, slunk backward deep into the thicket and out of sight. When she was sure that no one had seen her, the young Sealpoint Siamese turned around and raced back through the underbrush to report to her Gogol masters.
Chapter Seventeen
Mara's usually neat brown tresses were tangled and askew. Absentmindedly she threaded her fingers through them in an attempt to remove the worst of the knots. Her black velvet robe was creased and travel-stained, her face sticky with dried perspiration. But her appearance was the least of Mara's worries.
For the hundredth time she wondered if Hazar would blame her for failing to bewitch the messenger. But it wasn't her fault. A minor enchantress such as herself could never hope to beguile Greyhorn sufficiently to obtain a sample of his blood. The perfection of his disguise alone indicated the power of his magic.