by Dave Duncan
The next day the scenery changed dramatically. At dawn they plodded through snow and thick fog, trusting to Salt-ax-otter to find the trail. By noon they were shedding furs and descending grassy slopes, rocky and steep. A vast valley extended below them, speckled with white salt lakes and green farmland, and very far ahead—still days away, but visible as a brightness—lay the great lake of Tlixilia itself. Although weary from lack of sleep, everyone was jubilant. Even Blood-mirror-walks was cheerful. If they were not completely out of danger, he admitted, they were a lot safer now than they had been.
Soon heat was forcing them to strip down to bare necessities. They came to level meadowland dotted with clumps of strangely familiar trees—oaks, alders, and something Dolores said was cypress. One of the porters laughed and joked with Lynx, whom he must be seeing as fully human. Close behind those two, Wolf was walking with Blood-mirror-walks and having no more success at extracting information from him than he had back on Glorious. The warrior would neither admit that El Dorado had warships on the lake or deny that the Distliards did. He would talk about almost nothing except his forthcoming marriage and his bride’s exalted ancestry.
Wolf’s attention wandered, thinking of escorting his wife into the fabulous El Dorado a few days from now. Would they find a smug Flicker already there, negotiating the final details of a treaty? Or had Flicker and Heron-jade run into Distlish allies somewhere and ended up on an altar stone? The expedition was truly scattered now—Quin back in Chivial or at the bottom of the sea, Megan and the sailors perhaps hanging around Mondon trying to find passage back to Eurania.
As they were crossing a clearing he said, “My head hurts. That usually means—”
Blood-mirror-walks screamed a warning. An army sprang up out of nowhere. At least a hundred painted, feathered warriors came charging in on all sides, howling war cries and already hurling spears. They could not have been hidden by trees, for there were few trees close. Most of the porters dropped flat and played dead, but the one beside Lynx stopped a spear and there was nothing make-believe about his fall. Lynx himself seemed to blur, dodging two or three more spears and smacking a couple more right out of the air.
Drawing Diligence and his dagger, Wolf looked around wildly for Dolores. Then the horde was on him and he had no time for anything but staying alive. Blood-mirror-walks yelled, “Guard my back, Wild-dog!”
“Guard mine!”
The warrior had only his shield and a spear, because the glass-edged swords were impossible to sheath and had to be carried to battle by squires. Salt-ax-otter’s expedition was not equipped for full warfare and had been caught in sad disarray, as if some Eagle had been using the Serpent’s Eye on them.
Wolf faced his first painted, shrieking, be-feathered monster, blocked a downward sword slash with his dagger and ran Diligence through the man’s gaudy feathered shield into his chest. Before he even flattened grass Wolf parried a cut from another warrior with his dagger, surprising him, for that was not the naturales’ way of fighting. Obsidian shattered. Wolf swung his sword and the shield went with it, so Wolf hit him with that. Then Wolf jerked Diligence free and, as he tried again, cut his opponent’s knee almost through. Two more men came at him. There was no quarter in Tlixilian warfare; you died on the field or the altar stone.
He had been taught melee fighting at Ironhall, but had never expected to use it. He needed all his expertise just to stay alive, and did so only because he had Blood-mirror-walks at his back. With a glass sword taken from a corpse, the Eldoradoan made blood fly like rain. Footwork became tricky on ground littered with men—dead, dying, or pretending. Wolf just hoped that Dolores had had the sense to lie down, out of the way, but he knew in his heart that she would have drawn her sword and become fair game. He could hear wild animals snarling nearby and vaguely registered that Lynx was in an even wilder battle than he was, because the enemy would see him as a knight who must be neutralized before he could bring his powers to bear.
Two men rushed him with spears, holding them like lances to impale him at long range. He prepared to parry the first with Diligence and swing his dagger at the second, fearing it lacked the weight to deflect a pole properly. A renewed stab of pain in his head threw off his aim, but Blood-mirror-walks howled and crashed backward, knocking him flying, so both spears missed. One of them hit Blood-mirror-walks, but he was already as good as dead, pinning Wolf under him and fountaining blood over his legs. Helpless, Wolf looked up at a multicolored monster wearing a smile of triumph as he changed his grip to club his victim with the haft of his spear. Wolf had faced death often enough before and known terror, but now he felt only regret, a sense of waste that there was so much living to be done and he would not share it. He really did not want to be eaten.
Diligence slid from his fingers. The warriors dropped their spears. The world faded behind a sugary pink mist.
Somewhere a bird chirped in the mountain stillness.
After a little while Wolf struggled free, sat up, and peered around at the trampled, bloodstained turf. His temples throbbed. He could see more men on the ground than upright, but nobody was fighting anymore. They just stood there, most of them disarmed. This had to be spiritualism, he decided vaguely; men did not take time out in the middle of carnage.
A new force had appeared. Two or three score of men were striding over the battlefield in line abreast, methodically wielding the toothed clubs he had seen at Quondam, stunning the ambushers with brutal efficiency, knocking them flat without even breaking stride. The victims did not raise a hand to defend themselves. Survivors of Salt-ax-otter’s party were just ignored, but as soon as the line had passed, they began to recover their wits. It took a few minutes for the sugar to dissolve and the sun to break through.
“Dolores!” Wolf cried, scrambling to his feet. He lurched two paces, then came back to retrieve his sword. “Lynx?”
Lynx was sprawled within a circle of ripped and bleeding corpses and turning the air scarlet with a profane medley of Chivian, Tlixilian, and infuriated jaguar noises. He was well spattered with blood, but if much of it were his own he would not be capable of such a tirade.
“You all right?” Wolf demanded.
“Twisted my pastern. Where’s Night-fisher? Where’s Corn-fang? Why did they take so long? What kept them? You!” he roared. “Why didn’t you prevent this?”
Wolf swung around and found himself looking up at the bizarre and cryptic shape of an eagle knight, dark against the sky. Golden eyes glared down at him. The great beak opened, revealing a black tongue.
“If Salt-ax-otter and his whelp had kept proper military order,” the monster croaked, “this would not have happened.”
“You swore you’d keep watch over us, you oversized bag of feathers—”
“Eat dirt!” the Eagle shrieked. “But you did well, imposter. You were stunning them!”
“Of course I was stunning them!” Lynx raged. He flashed eight claws. “These are only good for skinning. I just thumped them.” He paused and looked around. “How many did I get, anyway?”
The Eagle assessed the bodies. “Seven. Perhaps five will live to reach the altar stone. That is no mean feat, warrior.”
“Right!” Lynx said, and calmed down. “Five is good, isn’t it? In one skirmish? This is my father’s son, Wild-dog-by-the-spring. Wolfie, meet terror of the skies Star-feather.”
Not convinced that his wits were back to normal, Wolf bowed and said something polite.
The towering Eagle nodded, setting his feathered headdress to waving. “Your father bred notable warriors, Hairy One.”
“Lord! Lord! You’re safe!” Young Night-fisher came racing across the field with arms outstretched. He skidded to a halt on his knees beside Lynx, looking ecstatically pleased with himself. “I took a captive for you, lord!”
Wolf said, “My wife! Where is my wife?”
“Here.” Star-feather stalked over the bloody sward, lifting and placing his feet like a giant rooster. Ashen pale, Dolores lay curled up v
ery small within a terrifying puddle of blood. Her sword lay beside her, and there was blood on that, too.
“Flesh wound in the belly,” the Eagle said. “Is the woman important?”
Wolf fell to his knees beside her. She was conscious, but overwhelmed by pain. Something inside him was shouting, No! No! No! in endless, mindless denial. Why had he ever let her come on this crazy, hopeless mission?
“Wolf?” she muttered through clenched teeth, her hand grasping for his. Her fingers were icy.
He forced his voice to remain calm. “Just a minute, love.” He cut away the cloth and was both relieved to see how small the wound was—she had not been run through or disemboweled. It was a clean, obsidian-sharp stab, but blood was still flowing from it and she might well be bleeding internally as well; the blade might have broken off inside her. Abdominal wounds were excruciatingly painful and invariably fatal unless promptly conjured. Tlixilia had no healing conjury.
“We’ll get you some help, love,” Wolf whispered, then looked up at the monster. “She is very important. She is vital, if you wish to make a treaty.”
She was vital to him, too. This must not have happened. It was impossible. He could not accept it.
“She is the emissary spoken of,” growled a new voice. Another Jaguar had arrived, recognizable from Lynx’s description—scars, slack body tone, ragged ears. He wore a flowing feathered cloak and a king’s ransom in gems and gold.
“The dread lord Basket-fox, I presume?” Wolf did not rise.
The old knight snarled, showing his fangs. “This was unfortunate. We were not prepared for the foe to use such force against you. You should be proud that the Yazotlans sent four knights. Discretion requires that we quit the field. Cloud harrier, take us to the floating city.”
4
Sunlight jumped, shadows shifted. The inevitable jab of pain made Wolf cry out and very nearly draw Diligence, in the fighting instincts of a swordsman. The air was hotter, damper, flower-scented, with macaws screeching nearby and drums rumbling in the far distance. He was kneeling on a rooftop, obviously in the center of El Dorado as Lynx had described it—white, flat buildings and a multitude of tapering towers. Dolores lay bleeding on a mat, instead of grass, but she did not seem aware of the change. Only Star-feather and Basket-fox had traveled with them.
“I will find healers for your woman,” the Eagle croaked, and vanished in another momentary headache. Having eagle knights dance attendance on a commoner, and a woman at that, was probably equivalent to a marquis delivering groceries.
Lynx flashed into view and yowled with fury, claws out. Evidently he had not expected the move. He was balanced on one paw and leaning on Night-fisher’s shoulder. Another Eagle towered over them both.
“Where do you want me to deliver your captives, terror of the dark?” the monster inquired.
“Yawrg!” Lynx said. “Um…”
“I shall be happy to install them in my own pens until you are ready to take them.”
“That is gracious of you, storm tamer.”
The Eagle vanished.
Lynx bared his fangs, somehow implying that if he had a tail he would lash it. “ ‘Terror of the dark!’ Did you hear that, Wolfie? That’s like—”
“Congratulations. And just what are you planning to do with your captives?”
He said, “Yawrg!” again and glanced up at the nearest pyramid, which overlooked them, its long shadow stretched by the westerly sun. “I’ll think of something.”
Let it go! This was no time to start a family quarrel with a big-brotherly lecture on ethics. “Whose house is this?”
“Basket-fox’s.” Still supported on Night-fisher’s shoulder, Lynx came hobbling over. “Sorry about this, Dolly.”
Eyes closed, she did not reply, and her hand did not respond to Wolf’s touch. She was unconscious, or narcotizing. Or dying. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
“Someone should…” Lynx said, “Ah, I hear them coming.”
Wolf heard nothing. Four middle-aged women came scurrying up the steps, carrying bags, and still he did not hear them, because they were barefoot. They wore the same white skirts of maguey fiber he had seen on almost every naturale woman, plus loose white tunics. He had expected men, but women to treat women was reasonable.
“Are male healers better at treating wounds?” he asked in Chivian.
Lynx shrugged. “About the same.” He meant neither much good.
The women clustered around the patient. Wolf moved out of the way.
“There is no octogram on the mainland, is there?” Condridad would be the closest.
Lynx said, “No. Don’t know why.”
Rojas had claimed that skilled conjurers refused to live in Sigisa, but there was probably some political reason. Dolores was going to die for want of a few minutes’ conjuration. In the haste of their departure, they had left all their conjured bandages back in Sigisa.
One of the women rose and turned to Wolf, keeping her eyes lowered. She held a blood-stained probe.
“Speak!”
“Lord, the wound has penetrated the bowel. We could cauterize with red-hot silver, but she might die of shock. She would almost certainly lose the child.”
“The child is of no importance.” He had not known of it and doubted that Dolores had. “The woman must be saved.” His mouth was so dry he could hardly speak. “Can you stop the bleeding? How long can she live?”
“The visible bleeding has almost stopped. We can sew the wound, but it may still bleed inside. We cannot answer the lord’s other question.”
She might die of loss of blood in minutes or hours, or of wound fever in days. No one survived an untreated stab in the intestines; pregnancy must make her even more vulnerable.
“Do not cauterize. Just keep her alive as long as you can.”
Of course it was Flicker’s child she carried. She could not have conceived before Shining-cloud stripped away her Cumberwell conjuration, and Wolf had succumbed to dysentery and fever right after that. For the next month he had been in no state to sire children. So Dolores had not told him the whole truth about Flicker’s farewell visit to the bedroom. Now that the truth was out, Wolf saw how very improbable her story had been. Flicker was a martial arts genius; he would not fail in something as physical as rape. Or had she cooperated? Wolf shuddered away from the thought. No, she had been bruised. People could not deliberately bruise their own faces. That was impossible. And she had been genuinely distraught.
He turned to Lynx. “We must get her home!”
Basket-fox came padding across the roof on his big cat feet. “Your acolytes in Chivial could make her live?”
Hope surged. “They could. Can your Eagles take her there?”
“They can. We are told you come as spokesman for your King, noble lord, and he sent you to make a treaty with our Emperor.”
“This is correct,” Wolf said.
The Jaguar touched the floor in salute. “Emissaries should be lodged in comfort and treated with honor and ceremony, brother of my friend, but clearly the matter is urgent. If you would waive all such ceremony without feeling that you have been slighted, then we can discuss a treaty right away.”
“This courtesy honors me beyond words.”
“Spirit stalker, you will keep watch over your brother’s woman for him?”
Lynx flashed fangs in delight at another compliment. “I will, terror of the forest. I’ll stay with Dolly, Wolfie.”
Wolf said, “I will be back very soon, love,” but she did not answer. He bowed to Basket-fox. “At your service, mighty lord.”
Lynx snarled, “Er…Wolfie, ambassadors do not go around armed. His sword is his regalia, dread slayer.”
“He may retain the sword,” the Jaguar said. “If you will be so kind, honored ambassador?” He beckoned with a paw.
Wolf had to run to keep up with the old cat as he hastened down the stair, and obviously everything had been foreseen. The first stop was a room where half a dozen boys waited with water and s
ponges and fresh garments. Wolf stood and endured while they stripped off the Distlish clothes he had worn since Sigisa—filthy, ragged, and now blood-soaked—then washed and dried and oiled him. He barely noticed. He could as well have been in a whirlwind or the bottom of the ocean, for he could not stop worrying about Dolores, and whether she would be alive when he returned. They garbed him in a loincloth and a larger, triangular cloth tied at his hip, then a feather cloak, a diadem of feathers, jeweled sandals, rings, bracelets, and flowers. All the time Basket-fox stood in the doorway urging them to go faster.
When they had done Wolf managed to curb his impatience for the moment it took him to thank the slaves, and the jaguar knight also. “Such finery overwhelms me!”
Basket-fox waved a paw dismissively. “Mere trinkets. Keep them to remind you of the day your footprint honored my house. If my lord is ready…”
Off they went across his private park, between trees, ponds, flowers. The sun had set but the sky was still blue and the air silky smooth. Dolores was dying. Lynx had said that the Tlixilians were anxious to make a deal, but the first rule of trading was never to seem too eager. Dolores was dying. Wolf must agree to any terms, like the commander of a starving city pleading with its besiegers. Dolores was dying. Dolores was dying. Cats play with mice. Dolores was dying.
“His name,” his host announced, “is Two-swans-
dancing. He is a member of the Great Council.”
“I have heard the great lord’s name and am honored beyond speech.” Two-swans was the Conch-flute, so the Tlixilians must be greatly expediting negotiations, cutting through the protocol. An eagle knight on guard at the door of a gazebo of white stone stepped to one side as the newcomers approached. Basket-fox went to the other, and Wolf walked through between them.
The man he had come to meet was standing within, arms folded, smiling welcome. He was young and virile, sumptuously dressed in a full-length feather cloak over a beaded and embroidered kilt and golden sandals; the plumes of his headdress reached higher than an Eagle’s. He wore gold and jade earplugs, gold plugs in his nose and lower lip, and he was wreathed in flowers. Wolf gave him the ground-touching salute. As he rose, the Conch-flute took his hand and led him to a pair of mats, the only furnishings in the pergola.