Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms)

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Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) Page 32

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch


  I made a slight bow. “Then I am at your service, Majesty.” I said. “I’ve grown weary whiling away my time in your guest chambers — magnificent as they may be.” I turned to Janela. “Although they are a trifle chilly, don’t you think?”

  “Quite so, my Lord,” she agreed.

  Azbaas stared at Janela, ignoring my small sally. “I’ve heard you were a most powerful sorcerer, Lady Greycloak,” he said. “Is this true or have you merely blinded your admirers with your beauty?”

  “Perhaps both are true, your Highness,” Janela said. “I’d be most interested in your opinion on the latter. After all, who better to judge one wizard than another?”

  “I was thinking that might be part of today’s amusements,” Azbaas said with another of his black-lipped sneers.

  I looked about the broad arena. “Is this crowd for us, Majesty?” I asked. “I fear we’d be taxed to supply entertainment for so many.”

  “Actually,” Azbaas said, “I’ve invited you to witness a witch sniffing. We have trouble with witches on occasion and I’ve found the best way to deal with it is to regularly purge them from our midst.”

  He motioned for Fizain to fetch us two stools. I noted they would put our heads well below his. I waved to Quatervals and Mithraik to sit in them instead.

  “If you don’t mind, Majesty,” I said. “I’d rather stand. I fear my behind has become numb from so much sitting in our quarters. A goblet of wine, however, would go quite well — if you would be so kind to offer it.”

  More hisses from the courtiers at my rudeness. In the stands the crowd was whispering to one another at my audacity.

  The king and I locked eyes for a moment. One word from him and we would be cut down as easily as a washerwoman’s line. But he knew as well as I the cost to his image would be most dear. A prince may rule with the cruelest of hands, he may keep his subjects cowering before him night and day. But let them once spy weakness and his reign is over — no matter how many spears or demons he has at his command. Azbaas was angry, to be sure. His anger, however, was turned inward for making this contest so public. I saw his jawline firm as he determined that he would bend us to his will. Once again we were blessed with a kingly smile.

  He settled back in his throne and nodded to Fizain. His aide shouted orders and drums thundered across the arena. Gates swung open beneath the stands and a horde of men and women stumbled into the light, kicked and lashed by soldiers.

  They were a most pitiful lot, half-naked and starved so their bones jutted out alarmingly. I heard cries for mercy and the king laughed, his laughter echoed first by his court and then by the suddenly jeering crowd.

  Over by the idol I saw half-a-dozen priests unveil an immense horn, such as the one Quatervals had described. Several of the priests steadied it as a squat mountain of a man approached — thick rolls of fat jostling as he walked.

  “That is Bilat,” King Azbaas murmured. “My chief shaman.”

  I said nothing but watched in horrified fascination as Bilat put his lips to the horn and blew.

  The sound was deep, penetrating to the very bone. It stirred an animal in me, a fearful animal that suddenly wanted to run to his master and ask forgiveness. I heard Quatervals curse and glanced to see him straining mightily against a powerful force. Mithraik, however, showed no emotion — other than an odd gleam of curiosity. Bilat blew again and my desire to bow and scrape and please made tears well up in my eyes.

  Azbaas laughed — harsh.

  Janela stepped forward, hand coming up to pluck the feather decoration from her cap. I remember it was green, like the tunic she wore over her black leggings. She placed it on her palm and blew. The feather floated up and Janela blew again and the feather shot across the arena like a spear. She made motions with her hands, muttering a spell I couldn’t hear, and then the feather became a great, ugly black bird that swooped above the shaman, squawking: “Bilat! Bilat!”

  Then it shat and the shaman jumped away from the horn, howling in angry humiliation. The crowd burst into laughter, which made him madder still. He shook his fist at the bird which squirted white feces on him again.

  Janela clapped her hands and the bird vanished — after one final squawk of “Bilat!”

  She turned to Azbaas, whose own lips jerked in amusement. The king was a man who immensely enjoyed the humiliation of others. Janela pulled off her cap and her mouth rounded into a “O” of surprise.

  “Where’d that feather get off to?” she said, scowling. Then she snapped her fingers and Azbaas jolted as one of the golden feathers from his robe leaped off and flew into Janela’s hands. “Do you mind terribly, Majesty?” she asked with a pretty pout. “This hat desperately needs a bit of color.”

  The king was still amused and laughed his permission. Janela stabbed the feather into her cap and turned back, her face smoothly innocent as she watched Bilat snarl at the priests and slap one of them on the head for laughing.

  Finally, the king tired of Bilat’s antics. “Tell the fool to get on with it,” he said to Fizain. He sighed impatiently as Fizain rushed to do his bidding.

  Somehow Bilat regained his composure. He gestured and magical drums renewed their thunder. Another gesture and rattles joined the drums, sounding like a nest of disturbed vipers. He reared back and howled like an animal and suddenly he and the priests were clutching the jawbones of direwolves mounted on ebony sticks with scarlet ribbons streaming from the black handles. Bilat began to dance and weave across the arena, shaking the jawbone this way and that. He moved lightly, no more the comical figure but a wizard on the stalk. His priests danced around him as he moved toward the mass of prisoners. As he came closer men shouted in terror, women screamed and I saw children clutch their parents and weep.

  Bilat chanted:

  Witch... witch...

  You cannot hide.

  Witch... witch...

  You cannot sleep.

  Witch... witch...

  The crowd took up the chant:

  Witch... witch...

  You cannot hide.

  Witch... witch...

  You cannot sleep.

  Witch... witch...

  Bilat and the priests circled the prisoners, drawing that circle tighter and tighter as the crowd pinched in to avoid contact. People fainted and were crushed under the heels of their fellow victims. One man dashed out and fell to his knees in front of Bilat, begging to be released.

  Bilat struck at him with the jawbone, crushing his face. Soldiers swept in, hoisted up the moaning figure and dragged him to the idol.

  There, more priests were at work stripped to the waist and streaming sweat. A grate set in the belly of the crouching stone beast had been flung open and the priests were throwing logs into the furnace. The soldiers pushed by them and hurled the man inside. He made no sound and I thanked any gods who might be watching for making certain the poor man was dead before the flames touched him.

  Bilat was worked up to a fury, dancing like a demon on fire his voice wailing over the chanting crowd:

  Witch... witch...

  Where is the witch?

  Witch... witch...

  Come to me witch.

  Witch... witch...

  Azbaas awaits...

  Witch... witch...

  Bilat stopped. He threw up his arms and the crowd hushed.

  “My king,” he said, his words rolling across the arena. “All are witches! All are traitors!”

  The prisoners screamed frightened denials, but soldiers hammered them into silence.

  Azbaas rose from his throne. I saw he had a direwolf staff like Bilat, only his was gold and encrusted with rare gems. He turned to the demon idol.

  “O, great Mitel,” he intoned. “Once again your subjects have failed thee. Once again we have found witches walking among us. Help us, O great Mitel. Rid us of this plague of disbelievers.”

  He shook his staff at the idol, then drew a figure in the air.

  “Take them, Mitel,” he shouted. “Remove them f
rom our sight.”

  Fire and smoke boiled from the idol’s mouth; then it came to life, rearing up taller than a building and roaring in fury. It leaped across the arena, reaching the prisoners in two great bounds. The soldiers scattered as the idol leaped into the mass of people.

  I turned away from the carnage, not caring when I saw Azbaas’ sneers at my display of weakness.

  “Now, are you amused my dear Lord Antero?” he asked.

  My fury vanished to be replaced by a sudden awareness of what was to be done. My temples and wrists grew warm and the delicate odor of a rose graced the air about me.

  I looked at king and made a sneer of my own. “Such a display might dazzle your subjects, Majesty,” I said. “But as for me, it only made me glad I had no time for breakfast.”

  Then I said to Janela: “I usually find travel more broadening than this. But I suppose one can’t expect much more from a savage.”

  Janela took my cue, adding, “Especially a savage whose master is a dog.”

  “Master?” Azbaas shouted, his enraged voice echoing across the arena. “I have no master! Only Azbaas rules here!”

  I yawned. “I won’t argue,” I said. “It’s impolite to disagree with one’s host.”

  Azbaas turned toward the demon, who was slaking his hunger on the bodies of the accused. “Mitel!” He roared. “Come to me!”

  Janela and I looked to see how the demon was taking such rude orders. He lifted up his head, fangs drooling blood. Then he lowered it again to return to his gory work.

  I snickered, driving Azbaas to greater fury. He screamed: “Did you hear, Mitel? Come to your master at once!”

  Once more the demon lifted his head. Azbaas swiftly changed his tactics. “More disbelievers await thee, O Great Mitel,” he implored. “Come see what a tasty feast I’ve prepared for you.”

  We didn’t wait to see who’d win the battle of wills. Instead, Janela took my hand and we descended the platform and strode toward the demon. Behind us Azbaas shrieked for our blood.

  The demon saw us. He howled in delight and trotted forward, the ground shaking under his paws. But I knew no fear and whispered to Janela: “The box. Get out the box!”

  But she needed no direction and was already pulling the drawstring bag from her purse. Calmly she withdrew the stone box and motioned for me to halt. Then she removed the lid and placed the box on the sand. I saw the delicate glass petal peeping up from the stone confines.

  We stood our ground as the demon bounded toward us. It’s breath was hot foulness; its eyes boiling smoke and flame.

  Janela raised her arms, chanting:

  The demon’s lust

  Is our power;

  The demon’s heart

  Enclosed by stone.

  The demon gathered himself for a final leap. But as he did so rose-colored smoke spewed from the box. The smoke became a thick swirling cloud of enchanting sweetness. It took on the slender form of the dancer, whirling in time to the most beguiling music.

  The demon froze. His bloody jaws snapped shut and his eyes seemed to grow larger and larger as he watched the ghostly figure dance.

  Janela whispered. A soft breeze blew and the rosy smoke drifted over the demon. It moaned in pleasure or perhaps in pain... I wasn’t certain. That moan became a bubble of light floating out of its maw. The light hovered in the smoke, sinking lower and lower until it was scant inches over the box. Janela leaped forward, the lid in her hand. She slammed it down, trapping the light inside the box.

  I looked up and saw the demon had become a mere stone idol once more. Somewhere in the heavens I thought I heard a mournful howl.

  All was deathly silence as we strolled back to pavilion to confront the king — not a murmur from the crowd, not a cry from a babe.

  Azbaas didn’t wait. He was striding across the arena, flanked by his aides. Behind them, soldiers hustled Quatervals and Mithraik along at spear point.

  When the king reached us his features were so drawn, his eyes so blazing with madness I thought for a moment I had miscalculated and he would have us killed before I could complete my plan. He opened his mouth as if to issue the orders. But Janela held up the box and his jaws snapped shut.

  “There is your power, king,” she said. “Without your demon you are nothing but a poor shaman. And a weak one at that.”

  Azbaas looked at the stone idol, then at the box and licked dry lips. His hand rose as if to snatch it away but Janela gestured and the box vanished.

  The crowd sighed as if one and Azbaas shivered.

  “I have in mind a bargain,” I said. “Free passage through your kingdom. And if you are very kind to us perhaps we can be persuaded to return your demon.”

  The king was a crafty prince. He made no empty threats of torture, knowing Janela would have loaded the magical dice so that his demon would be lost to him forever. Nor did he sputter or rage, further damaging his image in the eyes of his subjects.

  Instead he said, quite mild: “Very well, you have the better of me. You shall leave at once. And we can arrange the exchange at my borders.”

  Then he turned and stalked away.

  A very humble Fizain had us returned to the docks where our companions waited.

  I quickly explained what had happened to Kele and the others. Within the hour we had unloaded the most necessary items from the ships and were preparing for the long overland journey. A troop of our former guards stood by, glowering as I ordered Fizain to open the armory where our seized weapons were kept. Then I made him supply us with maps of Azbaas’ kingdom and we pored over likely routes for our march while the others completed the preparations.

  It was nearly dark before we were ready. But I had no desire to test my hold on the king and sent Fizain to tell him that we would soon depart. A storm blew up as we waited. But we were so glad to be nearly free that we didn’t mind the wet and cold. Thunder blasted from the west and I saw an eerie glow of light on the horizon.

  Janela called to me, her voice anxious. “Amalric,” she said. “They’re coming!”

  I thought she meant the king. I was even more certain of it when I turned to see Azbaas and his minions coming out of the night. Fizain held a broad animal skin umbrella over the king’s head to protect him from the weather.

  When he reached us, Azbaas looked all around — lips twisting in amusement.

  “I see you are ready, my dear Lord Antero,” he said.

  “Ready enough,” I replied. “Now, here’s what I propose we do when we reach your borders...”

  The king waved me to silence with a lazy hand. “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” he said. “It appears you’ll be my guest a bit longer.”

  Magical thunder blasted again from the west and now I knew what Janela’s warning had meant.

  The king laughed. It was a most evil sound. “Your son was right,” Azbaas said, “when he told me you were old and weak.”

  My heart wrenched. The king said, “We’ve been in communication, you see. Lord Modin of Vacaan and your son, Cligus Antero.”

  The king shook his head. “At first I didn’t trust them. They made such wild claims. I thought I’d have my fun with you and your pretty little witch. Then when they arrived I’d have new guests to entertain.”

  He made a mournful face. “But such was not to be.” Another chuckle. “However, after your display in the arena their offer sounded much more real — and attractive. Also, the more I pondered the more it was apparent I had nothing to fear from a man who cannot control his own son.”

  Azbaas sneered. “As for the demon — keep him. I don’t have such a great need for him, now. Your friends have offered me a much better trade. If I turn you both over to them they’ve vowed to deliver what I desire most. And that, of course, is power. More power than any wizard has ever held in this wilderness. Power over all my enemies.” He looked me full in the face. “Power,” he continued, “from fair Tyrenia. From The Kingdoms of the Night.”

  He pointed to the glow on the horizon. �
��Cligus and Modin are sweetening the bargain as we speak. To show good faith they are attacking that great soggy bitch Queen Badryia. They’ve promised to deliver her to me by morning.

  “Then you can join me on my royal barge and sail out to congratulate your son.”

  In my rage I imagined Azbaas had miscalculated by allowing us to rearm. Very well, I thought. If I am to be a corpse the king could join me on my pyre. I signaled the attack and drew my dirk. I launched myself at Azbaas. But the king laughed and lightning crashed between us. I found myself on my knees in the mud. I had been robbed of all strength and the rain became hot needles of fire in my flesh. I heard moans of pain as Azbaas’ spell overwhelmed my companions.

  The king spoke, his voice a great roaring in my ears: “As you can see, they’ve granted me a few more powers already. To show their generosity, they said. Actually, we both know better. The real reason was to make certain I could hold you captive.”

  He stooped and plucked my dirk from the mud. He touched the tip next to one of my eyes. “I wonder if they’d object to my delivering you blind?” he mused.

  Nearby I heard Janela moan. It was as piteous as the others and I knew we had lost. She moaned again but this time I realized it wasn’t a mindless gasp I heard but words meant for me.

  “Think of the feather, Amalric,” she was saying. “Think of the feather!”

  The king heard her as well. The dirk was withdrawn as he turned to ask: “Feather? What feather?”

  And I remembered the golden plume Janela had snatched from Azbaas’ robe. The image shimmered up in my mind and I felt Janela’s spirit joining me, weakened by the spell at first but growing stronger as we bore down with our combined wills.

  We thought of the rare creature that was the victim of the king’s vanity. With that the feather became a small golden bird. And then we made it larger — large as an eagle, with an eagle’s hooked beak and an eagle’s sharp talons. It gave an angry shriek and spread its wings and I heard Azbaas shout in surprise as the bird leaped from our minds and sped toward him.

  The king’s spell vanished and I struggled up to see him grappling with a huge golden bird. Azbaas screamed for help but Fizain and the soldiers were too stunned to move. The bird became twice the size of a man. Its wings were thunder as it rose in the air, carrying the king in its claws. Higher and higher it soared, Azbaas’ cries growing weaker. The bird suddenly let loose and the king screamed his last and plunged to the ground.

 

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