by James Silke
He turned to the anvil, and looked down at the metal in the fire.
“I see,” she whispered, “you… you’re not going to let me go?”
“I should not,” he said, “but I am going to, so you can carry my message to Brown John. Meat for metal, that is all I will give, him. Tell him that. I need a helmet, and body armor made of this outlander metal.” He turned to her. “Now we are finished. I saved you, and you have healed me. So you are free to go.”
She sighed with relief. “I swear I’ll tell no one of this place.”
His expression remained impenetrable.
She nodded, then stood and said bravely, “Well, I don’t understand you any better than you understand me. Least of all why you saved my life. But you did. And you saved my village, my people. I am grateful to you for that, and I always will be. But… well, I am finished also. I have given you my message, so now I will return to Rag Camp with your reply. Will you take me there?”
He nodded.
“Thank you.” She slung her pouch over her shoulder, moved to the stairs and Sharn, sitting on the fourth step, stood abruptly and growled.
“Wait!” It was a command.
Robin stopped short and turned to him. “It’s all right,” she said calmly, “Sharn won’t stop me. He knows me now.”
She moved up to the growling wolf, stroked his head and gave it a kiss, then ascended the stairs and went out. The wolf and man remained motionless, staring at each other, their expressions as identical as a matched pair of fools.
By late afternoon, Gath and Robin were moving east along Summer Trail in the Valley of Miracles. He walked.
She drove her wagon. When they came in sight of Rag Camp, Gath turned back. Robin reined up, sighed, and watched him for a long while. Then she headed her wagon toward the camp.
Twenty-seven
NIGHT SOUNDS
On his return trip Gath, parched and dry, was forced to stop and water frequently. When he reached his root house, he was exhausted and feverish. His bandaged wounds were seeping. He looked around outside, then inside for Sharn. The wolf was not there. He moved to the table, noticed the rosebuds had begun to blossom. He swore, lay down on the furs in front of his fire with a wine jar and began to drink. After two cups he was asleep.
He woke fitfully during the darkest part of the night. His mouth was again dry and his lips parched. He took a drink of wine and put more wood on the fire, then looked around. Sharn had not returned.
He went outside and stood in the cool moonlight, listening. The shrill clutter of nocturnal melodies soothed him. Then another sound rose above them and cut into him painfully.
It was the distant howl of a wolf. Not the normal night cry of that breed, but the sad, forlorn howl of an animal without a mate.
Twenty-eight
DAWN
The colors of the gaudy wagon were muted by the cool grey morning light that was spreading over Stone Crossing. Bone sat in the driver’s box folding a blanket on the seat beside him. Dirken sprawled on the flatbed snoring.
Brown John stood a short way off under an apple tree, his hands on Robin’s shoulders, and his lively eyes looking cheerily into hers. Her forlorn little face blinked back. He cupped her cheeks fondly in his gentle hands, rubbing away the moisture with his thumbs, and said, “You’ve done well, child. And I will hear no more words of defeat and failure from your lovely mouth. All that was asked of you was to deliver a few words, and you did that and more. A great deal more. You led him into battle against the Kitzakks, you saved his life. And he showed you his secret dwelling place, allowed you to leave with no more guarantee of silence than a small promise. These are truly extraordinary achievements, and totally unexpected.”
“Thank you, Brown John,” she murmured. “It’s kind of you to put it that way.”
“Kindness, dear child, has nothing to do with it.” He wagged a pedantic finger at her nose. “I merely speak the truth. And the most promising thing of all is that he sent you to me with a request for weapons and armor.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Because it reveals many things. Not only that he now understands the strength of the Kitzakks and their metal, but that he begins to understand himself. Believe me, Robin Lakehair, the stage is now set. His time is at hand. Soon, very soon now, he will be more than eager to deal with me in order to assure his superiority over other men.”
He laughed out loud, hugged her and it brought a smile to her cheeks. “Go now,” he said. “Bone and Dirken will see you home so you can get a well-deserved rest.”
She nodded and started for the wagon, but shyly turned back and kissed him on the cheek. Then she scurried to the wagon, climbed up and sat down beside Bone. The big man rose up proudly beside her with a grin on his face big enough to carpet a castle, then flicked his whip, and the wagon rolled forward.
As the wagon crested the top of Stone Crossing, the sun’s rays spilled over the horizon and the Grillard wagon blossomed in all its scarlet, pink and orange glory.
Twenty-nine
WET SCARLET
The Glyder Snake arched up out of mossy soil and pointed a flickering black tongue at the green wall of leafy ferns. Beyond the ferns, harsh sounds rose above the music of dripping dew, trickling water and insect songs that filled the deep shade of the rain forest. Booted feet were crushing dead undergrowth.
As the footsteps came closer a delicate, red-nailed hand stroked the snake’s head. It arched up languorously against the pleasing pressure of the fingertips, then looked up at the owner of the hand. Suddenly the fingers snapped up the snake, held it tight behind the head. Its jaws spread wide, gasping for breath, and its nine-inch glowing body flailed around the wrist in agony.
It was Cobra’s hand. She held the imprisoned snake up to her black-rimmed gold eyes. “I am sorry, small one, but I have no choice.”
Holding the writhing snake within the concealing folds of her robe, she moved through the wall of ferns toward the footsteps, and emerged at the edge of a small shaded glen. She was nearly invisible, part of the vegetation. Her robe had taken on the color of the ferns. Her silver skullcap, like the tips of the ferns, glittered green-gold where the sun touched it. Her bosom rose and fell matching the rhythm of the feathery green leaves fluttering on the damp breeze.
The small glen was no bigger than a private room at an inn. A deep bed of moss carpeted the ground. It was surrounded by ferns except for the side opposite the sorceress, where two birch trees framed a doorlike opening through which could be seen an infinity of flickering black shadows. The roof was leafy branches. A shaft of golden sunlight pierced that roof, made a golden puddle of light at the center of the mossy bed.
The sounds of footsteps beyond the two birch trees grew louder.
Her narrow lips parted slightly in anticipation, and she stepped into the warm column of sunlight.
The advancing sounds hesitated, then moved forward again, angry with snapping twigs and breaking bushes, and Gath stepped out of the enveloping darkness, like a sword drawn from a scabbard. He was darker than she remembered. More brutal. Hard dry scabs were turning to scar tissue. His fur loincloth bristled slightly in the breeze. A new suit of chain mail, his belt and a Kitzakk helmet were slung over his shoulders. A bright steel axe rode his right fist. His chiseled features were mottled with dark shadows, and wore an expression of dark invitation. To a bed of murder.
Cobra trembled involuntarily, and her robe shimmered in the sunlight, began to change. Yellows faded to orange, vermilions to hot scarlet. When she parted her robe, the golden cloth surrendered to its prisoners and flushed flesh revealed itself at breasts, stomach and thighs.
Gath sneered at this invitation. He shrugged the belt, helmet and suit of chain mail off his shoulders, and they dropped with his axe to the ground. His only weapons were his hands, more than enough.
Cobra shuddered, took a step back, lifted the writhing Glyder Snake in front of her and held a thin dagger at its throat. “Wait!” she plea
ded.
Gath did not break stride.
Cobra slit the Glyder snake’s throat, and its head tumbled away. She held up the spurting throat and gasped, «“Wait! Your secret is safe now. Only the snake knew where you lived. I can not find you anymore.”
He knocked the bloody reptile out of her hand, and backhanded her hard to the ground. She went down in one soft piece, sprawled on her back. There were streaks of blood across her cheek. Her dagger lay five feet off.
He glared down at her, a hot shadowed mass of muscle pulsing with death.
She gasped for breath, rolled onto a hip and gaped up at him as he dropped on her. He took hold of her head and turned her face away from his, slowly began to twist her neck. She gagged and shuddered under his body sending warm waves of heat through his hand, thighs and groin, and he hesitated. When she spoke, it was very carefully.
“Don’t kill me! Let me talk first.” She gasped for air, begged, “Please, let go. I can’t breathe.” She looked at him over a shoulder. “There’s no danger. I’m alone.”
He let her drop back gasping on the moss, and glanced around warily, then back at her.
She drew herself from under him, and rose on her elbows, whispered, “The Kitzakks send men to hunt you, bounty hunters who kill from shadows and great distances.”
“And you will tell them where to find me.”
“I can’t. Only the snake knew the location of your cave. But they will find you just the same.”
“Again you lie.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I have no reason now, you have passed the test.”
The corners of her mouth reached into the lush hollows of her cheeks. She indicated his new tools. “You must have better, far better! A man who has the kind of enemies you have needs better metal than any ‘man’ can provide.”
He studied her thoughtfully, then said quietly, “I did not know there was better.”
She nodded. “There is always better if you know where to shop… and have the price.”
He studied her for awhile. Her scarlet robe brightened, took on an almost hypnotic glitter. Her heat wafted across the moss and caressed his chest. Ignoring it, he said arrogantly, “I have the price, if you can get the metal.”
She crooned, “I have it now. A helmet. One like no other. It was worn by the legendary Shalarmard, and the demon tyrants, Barbar, Karchon and Geddis. A helmet made from an ancient formula with steel smelted by the fires of the underworld, and hammered on the anvil of the gods.” She waited. “You are interested?”
He nodded.
Realizing he had agreed more quickly than he had intended, her teeth flashed briefly behind the moist scarlet of her smiling lips. They stood slowly, appraising each other. Then, with confidentiality, she murmured, “The helmet is in my dwelling. In the Land of Smoking Skies beyond the Land of Toofar. Come, visit me there, and it will be yours.”
He said, “A long trip!”
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “One most men do not dare to take.”
“With reason.” His tone challenged her. “You spoke of a price?”
She started to reply, hesitated. Color flamed on her cheeks. Her garment glowed wet scarlet, then turned transparent revealing the dark accents of her body, lewd living jewels. She covered herself with her robe, and held her right shoulder gently with left hand. Her right arm hung loosely.
She said, “Dark One, I am not made in the normal manner, but in the manner of the ancients. My passions and my nature were formed during a time when women sat in judgment over men, a time when woman was the hunter and man the prey. So forgive my boldness.” Her eyes became almost imperceptible. A husky whisper exhaled her words. “You are the price. Come to me, be my consort, and you will have paid in full.”
He responded sharply, “A whore’s price.”
“No,” she said with force, “a king’s. Once you wear the helmet no creature will be able to approach you unannounced, no venom poison your blood, no man defeat you.”
He ran a thumbnail across a scab on his forearm then back again and shook his head. “I would rather kill you.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said in a low throaty whisper. “Not, at least, until you find if I speak the truth.”
Cobra used a finger to tuck a disobedient strand of black hair back in place, then stiffened elegantly, regal in manner and tone. “Take your time. Wait until your wounds are completely healed and your strength is what it was. Rebuild your new armor until it suits you. There is no hurry.” Her tone became low and husky. “Believe me, I will wait. Men like yourself, my friend of the shadows, are rare. Very rare. And I can make you unique… release all the power that boils in your blood. Make you invincible.” She took a sharp breath. “Do you know what that means to me? No. You could not. You have no idea what it means to a woman, or how she would feel, holding that kind of power in her arms.”
His body replied with a flush of desire.
She smiled hotly, moved to him confidently, and allowed her voluptuous curves to press against him.
His hand took hold of her neck and he demanded, “Name the landmarks. I will find my way.”
He let go of her, and she staggered back. Her breath caught in her throat, then she told him the way. He picked up his things and strode past her, disappearing into a fluttering wall of ferns.
She did not watch him go, but listened to his footsteps fade away. Relieved, she let herself sink slightly with exhaustion and the natural colors of her clothing returned. She glanced at the headless body of the Glyder Snake sprawled awkwardly on the moss. It had lost all of its beautiful electric colors, and was as dark as a wet stick.
Thirty
THE JOURNEY
At first light, four days later, Gath left his root house wearing the mended suit of chain mail. It was now blackened except for scattered glitters of raw metal. Two jars of wine, a blanket roll, sword, two daggers, a satchel and a leather fire pouch rode his back and belt, and he carried Red Helmet’s axe in his right hand. His clean-shaven face wore the color of good health, and he was bareheaded, moving west with a hurried stride.
By the time he reached Trail’s End, at the farthest edge of the Shades, he slowed to a reasonable pace. His face was flushed, and the wounds on his shoulder and thighs were hot and chafed under the chain mail.
A crowd of bleached skulls mounted on sticks marked Trail’s End. Beyond it was Toofar, and beyond that the Land of Smoking Skies.
Gath picked his way through the skulls, weaved through the tangled vines beyond, and found a dusty path apparently formed by big-footed, wide-shouldered beasts. It took him to Noga Swamp, a seemingly endless spread of mangroves whose mammoth roots rose out of murky green slime to form house-sized structures roofed by leafy trees. Amid the shadows, a scarlet dragon-lizard sunned itself in a scrap of sunlight.
It was sprawled on a bald rock about a foot from the spot where Gath’s boot landed with a crunch. The lizard popped an eye open, spread its toothy jaws in a silent scream, and fled leaping and dashing over a highway of branches into the swamp.
Gath grinned at this show of comical flattery, then splashed to a stop. The cacophony of insect sounds that swarmed over the swamps was swelling in volume. Then all about him there was a multitude of slithering movements, as if the enormous swamp were a single living creature. A pandemonium of splashing and bubbling followed, then silence. The sudden void of sound gave the wet land a strange compelling aspect, and a thrill shot through Gath, as if he were a boy again feeling that first hunger to see the other side of the mountain.
He high stepped his way along the edge of the swamp, and as Cobra had said he would, came to an ancient, raised dirt road that wound its way through the mangroves. At irregular intervals along its battered broken body, vine-covered bridges rose above the water to pass over deep ponds and the tallest roots. He followed it and moved west deep into the swamp.
As he passed over the murky ponds the sounds and movements slowly returned. They started behind him, then ca
me rolling around him, waves of tiny, clacking voices washing him forward.
Large, slime-coated eyes watched him from the root shadows. He felt a thousand others on his back. But the road in front of him seemed strangely lifeless. He shortened his grip on his axe.
At a bridge spanning a wide canal that linked two lake-sized ponds, Gath stopped warily. At the center of the ponds the green slime dissipated and feathered out in webs of yellowish foam, then gave way to patches of blue-green water. Splashes of sunlight, finding passage through the thinning tree cover, made them glitter, and graced the skeleton of a man dangling from a high tree branch. He hung by his own chain neckpiece. His legs were missing, but he still looked as tall as Gath. An ancient giant who had had his stature severely reduced by some enterprising swamp creature.
Gath’s eyes hunted through the murky wetness, stopped and turned cold. A mammoth crocodile floated on its belly in the shade below the skeleton. Its scaly hide was the color of the swamp and crusted with warts, scars, sores. Its blinking eyes, dense with thick yellowish cataracts, had obviously seen centuries of the primordial world’s suffering. The creature’s teeth, rotted to sharp jagged stumps, had no doubt contributed a large portion to that agony. Its best days were long gone, but with jaws big enough for three men to wrestle in, it was still Lord of the Swamp.
Gath rolled his shoulders and moved arrogantly across the bridge giving the mammoth reptile his back.
At the western side of the swamp the road consisted of rotting wooden planks mounted on wooden stilts as tall as trees. A floating bridge that passed narrowly over giant Tubb plants, spined cannibal flowers shaped like pitchers with rounded lids that poured forth beckoning tongues.
Beyond the swamp was more forest, then Panga Pass, a narrow dirt trail through brown foothills of stacked boulders of uncanny sizes and shapes. It was as barren of plant life as the swamp was dense. Beyond the boulders the pass twisted between two mountains. The yellow-orange ball of the sun dipped below their rugged horizon in glowing invitation.