Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Sal let all this sink in for a moment. Seemed pretty cut and dry to him. “So a lot of granites go evil then?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘evil’, exactly,” Jaren said, his face drawing up as he searched for the right words. “Granites are no more inherently evil than emeralds are good. They just tend to have different values.”

  Sal stared blankly at Jaren, missing the connection. Jaren tried a different approach.

  “Due to our gemstone eyes, mage vision differs from human vision. First, we have primary vision, or normal vision. It is similar to your own vision, but tinged the color of the mage’s soulgem—green in my case. Secondary vision is suited to the powers of the gem the mage is attuned to. Emeralds are attuned to health, so emerald mages are able to see the health or decay of a creature or object. Ruby mages likewise see in terms of heat, sapphires stress, and amethysts energy.

  “Granite, on the other hand, is more of a rock than an actual gem. Light cannot pierce it, so a granite mage has no primary vision. They must rely solely on their secondary vision, seeing only in terms of the strength or weakness of matter. As such, they have no relief from their magic, no opportunity to set their magic aside and just be normal for a time. They tend to be solitary, bleak. The world holds no beauty for them. Thus, their singularity of vision leads almost all to embrace logic, practicality. In doing so, they see that the Highest holds sway in the land, and has for millennia. Logic dictates that he will continue in power for millennia to come. So to answer your question... yes, they are in large part misguided, but evil?” Jaren sighed. “That is ultimately up to the Crafter to decide.”

  Sal was silent for a moment, considering. “That helps a little, but it still doesn’t tell me what a granite mage was doing in my world.”

  Jaren shrugged, at a loss.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, mate,” Retzu chimed in. “Whatever it was, he was up to no good. And I dare say that if you saw such a logical creature ‘twist his face in hatred’, you’ve earned yourself a foe at least as dangerous as any you’ll ever meet.”

  Sal couldn’t help but shiver at the prospect.

  “I must say, though,” Reit said, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “Whatever happened before you were dropped off to rot in our cell, you must have been a force to be reckoned with. You survived.”

  ***

  About the middle of the next afternoon, they crested a high ridge. From that venue, Sal saw their destination at the foot of the hill.

  Caravan, as Reit called it, was a smallish village with a population just shy of a thousand. Sal doubted it would take more than a half hour to walk the village’s perimeter. But what it lacked in size, Caravan made up for in versatility.

  Aptly named, Caravan seemed able to pack up and move on a moment’s notice. Blacksmiths, leather crafters, artisans, fletchers, and a number of other professions, all conducted business out of wheeled shops or tents. Indeed, Reit told him that it was customary to move every few weeks, whether they needed to or not. Food was rarely a problem, as the Vale teemed with game, and Caravan had a number of sister villages that aided in tending the numerous crops that they’d planted throughout the region. And then there were the thousands of nameless farmers, who grew their plantations out in the middle of nowhere, beyond the notice of all but their kin. Caravan and her sisters could easily disappear, never to be found by their enemies. Sal was still contemplating the tactical advantages of such guerrilla communities when the ground before him started sprouting arrows.

  Almost by instinct, Sal dropped to the ground and rolled for the nearest cover, a dense cluster of saplings just off the path. “Ambush, ambush!” he shouted, and waited for his companions to dive for cover. To his shock, they simply stood there, favoring him with looks of mild amusement. Reit shook his head lightly and stepped forward, harvesting two of the arrows at his feet.

  Reit flipped the arrows in his hands until he had both arrows by the head, and then directed his eyes into the trees before him. Sal followed his gaze and found a small compliment of archers spaced out between the branches. One of the archers lowered his bow and nodded. Even as Reit raised the arrows over his head, Sal got the gist of what was going on.

  The rebel leader was quick to confirm his suspicions. As the arrows reached their apex, Reit brought them down again, twirling out a series of signals so elaborate that Sal could barely follow them. The arrows seemed to come alive as Reit beat out a pattern as a rock musician would a drum solo. When he was done, Reit dropped the arrows and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Whatever message he’d sent had apparently been accepted, for the rest of the lookouts lowered their weapons and allowed Reit and Company to pass.

  Must be the right place, Sal thought wryly. I didn’t wind up a human pincushion. Jaren extended a hand to Sal, though he guessed it was more to cover the mage’s amusement than it was to help him to his feet. He brushed off the dead leaves and twigs with as much dignity as he could muster, and then hurried to rejoin his companions as they descended the ridge toward Caravan.

  The village at the base of the ridge was set up roughly in a square. Camouflaged but beautifully decorated, the residential area—many wagons serving as both home and shop—made up the perimeter, broken every so often by a guard post. Within this perimeter was a commercial district which ringed a central commons area. A barely visible path led from the top of the ridge to the village center. As they approached, the path began to fill with people.

  But something seemed amiss. The village people were not the welcoming party that Sal would have expected. No grand parades for their fearless leader, newly freed from the prison of the Highest. Parents reined in their children, holding them close. More, the children looked as cautious as their parents. Something was wrong. It couldn’t be the wrong village; they had come straight to it, so Reit must have known the location well. And they obviously knew who Reit was, as he didn’t sprout arrows from his chest back at the lookout post.

  Then it hit him that he was the reason for their caution.

  For the first time since waking in the prison, Sal considered what he must look like. He was still dressed in his black SEAL jumpsuit—minus, of course, his personal effects, body armor, and weaponry, which he’d apparently been relieved of prior to his incarceration. His dirty blonde crew cut had more than a week’s growth on it, and he had the shabby beginnings of a beard. And then there was his eye. He still hadn’t had the chance to inspect the handiwork of the prison emeralds, or Jaren’s touch ups, so he had no idea what it might look like. He was just thankful that he still had it.

  Take all this and roll it up in a week’s worth of prison filth and fugitive travel, Sal thought sardonically. You must be quite a sight to see.

  At the edge of town, the villagers formed a human barrier. They were confronted by two mages from a nearby guard shack, both with glowing gemstone eyes—red, though, in contrast to Jaren’s green. He wasn’t sure what type of mage they were, but the sheer menace rolling off of them labeled them as a warrior class. All at once, Sal realized there was a much simpler explanation for the way the villagers—and the ruby-eyed guards—regarded him.

  He was an outsider, a threat.

  Reit moved to one side, and the pair stepped forward and grabbed Sal’s arms, locking them behind his back. Retzu and Jaren did nothing.

  Reit turned a stony, expressionless face to Sal. As the villagers pressed in to hear, he addressed Sal in a voice clearly meant for his audience’s benefit.

  “James Salvatori, you have expressed interest in finding refuge with us. Having traveled with us, do you still wish it so?” Reit intoned, his words resonating with ritualistic majesty.

  Last call, Sal thought to himself. Time to put up or shut up. Seeing no other options, he said, “I do.”

  Reit nodded, satisfied. “Then you will be tried by our wisest council, to determine whether you speak from the abundance of your heart. Your usefulness would be great...”

  “...but our Cause is gr
eater,” the crowd replied in unison. Apparently, the whole village had a part to play in this ritual.

  “You will be held in safety and comfort tonight,” Reit recited. “You will be fed and bathed. You will be healed of any injury that you might have received while traveling with us, and be given rest. You will speak to no one. On the morrow, you shall be tried by the heads of the Gemstone Orders represented in this village.”

  “The Sapphire,” called a voice, drawing Sal’s eyes to an old man with blue gemstone eyes as he made his way to the front of the crowd.

  “The Amethyst,” came a soprano, a young woman with violet eyes standing a few feet back from Reit.

  “The Ruby,” said one of the men at Sal’s elbow, his voice rumbling with menace.

  “The Emerald.” With that, Sal saw Jaren slip around him to Reit’s side, his green eyes burning in all their bejeweled glory.

  Reit paused another moment, as if waiting for any other gemstone orders to represent themselves. When none did, Reit continued. “Should you be found true in all, you shall be allowed to join our ranks. You shall take up arms against our enemies...”

  “...and we shall take up arms against yours,” the crowd again responded.

  “Should you be found true but at odds with us, we will not treat you unkindly. Freedom of will is paramount to us—even the freewill of our enemies. You will be taken into the Vale and released, unharmed, to go your own way.” He paused for a moment, implying the gravity of what he would say next. “But should you be found false, both at odds with our Cause and without the integrity to own it, you shall die, as swiftly and painlessly as the Crafter would allow us, for a double-minded man is a danger to others as much as to himself. We shall mourn your death...”

  “...but the Cause must survive,” said the villagers.

  Reit nodded again, the ritual coming to a close. “Go in peace. Pass the night in contemplation. Face the morrow with honor.” That last having been said, Reit and Jaren stepped aside to admit Sal and his keepers. The crowd parted before them, and then closed behind them as they passed.

  It was all that Sal could do to resist the urge to break and run. Which was probably just as well, since the ruby mages seemed the type to have itchy trigger fingers. Sure, he understood that Reit had to keep his people safe. Sure, the villagers would have to be able to trust him if he was to live there with them. But the whole “death—swift and painless” thing was a bit much. Reit could have at least warned him before trussing him like a Thanksgiving turkey. Well, what’s done is done, Sal thought. So biting his lip—hard—he allowed his minders to lead him on.

  The rubies and their “guest” continued to attract spectators as Sal was led to a small, one room wagon on the north side of the village square. It didn’t escape Sal’s attention that the door had no knob, only a locking bar across the front of the door. Apparently, the guards weren’t too worried about people breaking into the wagon.

  Stopping at the wagon’s wooden steps, the mages bade him enter. He threw them his best we’ll-settle-up-later look, and stepped inside. He winced slightly as the door slammed shut and the bar slid into place. Not exactly the point of no return, Sal thought grimly. I hit that about the time I jumped from that transport plane.

  Once inside, though, he had to admit that things didn’t look all that bad-minus the impending death thing, of course. The tiny wagon, breezy and well lit by small windows set high in the walls, seemed to have every amenity. To his right was a straw bed, complete with linen sheets, a warm-looking blanket, and goose down pillows. To his left was a polished wood washtub, big enough for two people, and already filled with steaming water. But it was what stood between them that caught and held his attention, driving all other thoughts from his mind. After three days of greyish-green prison sludge, and a week’s worth of trail rations—which, though they had tasted better, were no more filling—he couldn’t have imagined a feast more tempting than the one that was spread on the table before him.

  In the center of the table lay a serving platter, filled to overflowing with huge hunks of meat, dripping with grease. Wedges of yellow cheese and piles of spiced potatoes and onions ringed the platter. The platter was flanked on one side by a basket of dark bread and a butter dish, and on the other side by a pitcher of iced water.

  Almost fearing that it was a mirage, Sal attacked the platter with a viciousness seldom seen even in third world countries. Large portions of food vanished into thin air as he virtually inhaled the bounty. But as the frontal assault died down to a skirmish, Sal took a little time to enjoy his meal. And enjoy he did. He happily dribbled grease from the corners of his mouth for the next hour, until finally he could eat no more.

  Next he turned his attention to the bath. As he stripped down, he noticed for the first time the leathers hanging on the rack next to the towels. Not wanting to soil the clothes, he decided to bathe before examining them.

  He took his time. What grime the flower-scented soap missed he was able to get with a coarse-haired scrub brush, also compliments of the management. Somewhat cleaner, he relaxed and let the slowly cooling water work the knots out of his muscles. He would have been tempted to fall asleep in the tub, had the water not eventually cooled enough to be uncomfortable.

  Sufficiently refreshed, he pulled the stopper from the drain, and dried himself as he watched two weeks of stench and filth disappear leisurely in a whirlpool. Interestingly enough, he didn’t hear the telltale splashing of water being dumped under the wagon. But at that point, he was still too worn out to care where the water went.

  He returned the towel to the rack and put on the clothes his “captors” had provided for him. Along with the doeskin jerkin and trousers, he found a pair of wool socks and some drawstring knit boxer shorts. Not exactly Fruit of the Loom, he thought to himself, but they’ll do in a pinch. He slipped on a pair of calf-high moccasins he found under the bed, completing the ensemble. Then and only then did he realize the one thing that was missing in his prison cell. A mirror.

  He looked himself over as best he could. “I’ve gone native,” he chuckled to himself. Everything seemed to fit, more or less. He guessed Reit had described “the outsider” when he was waving his arrows around, perhaps even sending measurements along with his security concerns. No matter. Anything was better than his old BDUs, which lay in a filthy, ragged heap at his feet.

  Satisfied that he’d fulfilled all of Reit’s assignments except for one, he slipped out of everything except his boxers, and draped the clothing neatly over the end of the bed. Then, slipping beneath the covers, he determined to “pass the night in contemplation.”

  But as his head hit the pillow, sleep stole him, leaving only his dreams to contemplate.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning dawned clear and bright, with the scent of dogwood on the breeze. Sal woke to birdsong, and was content for the first time in what seemed forever. He spent a moment wallowing in blissful innocence, his mind for once not occupied with anything more pressing than right now. All too quickly though, the thought of his upcoming “trial” brought him back to reality. Grudgingly leaving his perfect moment behind, he threw back the covers, grabbed the fresh clothes, and dressed.

  He had no sooner pulled on his moccasins than the wagon door eased open. At the foot of the steps were his two minders, looking for all the world as if they hadn’t moved an inch all night. Sighing, Sal got to his feet and left the confines of the wagon, extending his elbows toward the mages with a wry grin.

  Apparently, the sarcasm was lost on the rubies, for they took the elbows and led Sal onward without a word. He just sighed again, and vowed to liven this group up a bit, should he survive the trial.

  The ruby guards steered Sal through the commercial district and onto the village green. There, in the center, a wooden dais had been erected, about twenty feet squared and four feet off the ground, sheltered by a collapsible pavilion. There were four chairs set up in a square in the center of the stage, all facing a single chair in
the middle. Sal could guess which one was the hot seat.

  Sal and his minders made their way through the modest congregation standing before the dais. Not exactly a strong showing of the village’s interest in the day’s events. Then it occurred to Sal that they were likely the members of the village’s ruling council, there to monitor, and possibly participate in, the questioning of the stranger. As the rubies led Sal to the dais, one of the mages dropped back, as if to stand guard at the foot of the stairs. The other, a bulky black man with a proud set to his chin, continued with him up the stairs to the central chair. Sal had an unnerving vision of walking the gallows. But there was nothing he could do about that right now. He doubted that he could fight off those currently assembled there, much less the entire village. So he just allowed himself to be led to the chair then sat down, waiting for the show to begin.

  The first to speak was his minder. “I am Senosh of Deitrich,” he addressed Sal in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the assembly, his red gemstone eyes smoldering in the morning sunlight. He spoke with respect, jutting that proud chin even higher as if to insinuate the honor his prisoner should feel to know who would be judging him. “I am Head of the Ruby Order. I stand opposed to the Highest. I fight for el’Yatza.” His ritual introduction complete, Senosh took one of the seats behind Sal.

  As the ruby sat, an elderly man moved out of the assembly and mounted the stairs. Sal thought the man took the steps a bit too steadily for his apparent age. “I am Menkal of Bastion,” the old mage said in a lazy, country accent through his thick mustaches, fixing his deep blue eyes on Sal. “I am Head of the Sapphire Order. I stand opposed to the Highest, and I fight for el’Yatza.” That said, the old man sat in the other chair to Sal’s rear.

  “I am Delana of Eastwind Delta,” came a ringing soprano, hot on Menkal’s heels. Sal had noticed the pretty woman the day before, but now he had a moment to truly appreciate how beautiful, how very self-possessed she really was. Her night-black hair was done up in braids and bound together at the base of her neck, revealing a copper-skinned face. Her cheekbones stood high on her face, giving her an air of vanity. Sal could almost swear the woman was Hispanic, or of some other western European descent, but her enchanting violet gemstone eyes quickly reminded him that she was not.