“The citadel,” gasped Ramagar, panting for air, “we have to get down to the city at once to free the slaves and give our signal to the Vulture …”
“The fires are spreading everywhere,” said Thorhall. And he glanced back at the devastated camp. “You’ll have to cross the flames to reach the road.”
“No matter,” replied the thief, thinking now only of finding Mariana amid the raging of battle and rescuing her before marauding Druids combed the land.
From behind came the whinnying of frightened horses; Ramagar turned with blade in hand. Standing tense and poised he stared as Homer appeared from within the dense clouds of smoke, riding a fine black stallion. His face was black with ash and smoke, his clothing smeared, but the grin he wore stretched from ear to ear.
“The compound is freed!” he cried merrily. “We can rejoin the Prince!”
“He’s right,” said the haj. “Best we hasten to the citadel as fast as we can.”
“That’s why I rounded up these,” replied Homer, and he gestured to the two horses on short rein standing docilely behind his own. “With luck we can be there in a few hours.”
“The sooner the better,” said Ramagar. He took the bridle of one in hand and soothed the mare’s flanks. “Captain Osari must be close to port by now, and we can’t keep him waiting.” And losing no time, he expertly mounted and prepared to ride.
“Farewell until the battle is done,” called Thorhall as the haj mounted his own steed. Then as he and Argyle began the march to overtake the garrison and free the countryside, the three companions from Kalimar waved briefly and galloped off in the opposite direction.
Through thundering flame they spurred the horses on, riding a course right through the burning camp where only hours before a thousand slaves had languished. Across the shattered and smoking terrain, mindless of the stench of death and the pitiful sobs of dying men resounding in their ears, they clattered over debris, beyond the splintered fences, and onto open land.
Back toward the Valley of Morose they raced, where even at this distance they could make out the lines of the foreboding Devil’s Tower as it swayed amid the terrible winds and began to crumble.
The sky blazed now in whirling color as the riders reached the flatland. It glowed as black as coal, then white almost as the day; flashes of scarlet and amber dizzily danced above, changing to silver and gray and returning at length to burn feverishly with blue fire. The poisoned clouds churned demonically in a vortex; it was hail that suddenly pelted the earth, spewing harmless venom to the ground while the thunder clapped in deafening roars and the winds continued to howl.
Over field and bogs they hurried, winding along the tremor-filled road, while from faraway points they could hear the low droning of bells, hundreds of bells, deep and resonant. They clanged like the wails of demons, and the riders shuddered with every chime.
Drawing close to the citadel, they paused upon a rise and peered out for the first time at the city itself and the port beyond. Ramagar stared in wonder. The sea had begun to roll, with wave after mountainous wave lashing furiously against the ancient wharves and low reefs at the harbor’s mouth, breaking over both, smashing them like kindling. Into the stoic walls of the capital they crashed; like a flood the torrent of ocean came, crushing seawalls asunder, pouring like a tempest over deadened scapes and withered lands.
Then atop the heights near the jagged chalk cliffs the riders took pause again. Peering down at the city, they watched a sight unlike anything they had ever seen. Even as the bite of the sea tore at the Druid fortress from without, a great tumult had begun to rage from within. Great fires were spreading everywhere, and beneath the explosions of the sky above, it seemed as though the entire land of Speca was crumbling before their eyes. From shore to shore the land was shaking; the din of rampant mobs broken free attested to the thousands of slaves rid of their shackles and now ripping apart every vestige of Druid domination.
Mighty statues came smashing to the ground; grim temples and marble plazas were devastated as the earth quaked underneath. As once-fierce Druid cavalry and archers vainly tried to stem the raging tide, scores of half-crazed mobs burnt everything in sight. Dragon Ships were rocking and tossing upon the angry sea, rendered virtually helpless with the maelstrom. Slowly, though, the dark vessels plowed closer to the port, weapons of destruction aimed at the heart of the city itself.
“They’re going to destroy the capital!” cried Ramagar, watching as the sail-less ships fought their way toward the shore.
“Aye,” agreed the somber haj. “They hope to raze the city and ravish the land. The lords of Darkness demand as much. If Druid culture must perish, then so shall all others …”
Ramagar looked on helplessly; already the first balls of steel had been flung from the catapults, smashing over the walls and killing all who stood in the way. The crowds were fleeing helter-skelter, scrambling over the corpses of fallen comrades and slain Druids. And onward the Dragon Ships pressed, in unholy vengeance against the pitiful city.
The Dragon Ship prows struck westward, past the broken seawalls; the sea was black with the shadows of crimson ships dancing upon the tossing waves. But then, even as they drew closer to target, other vessels began to appear beneath the twisting clouds to the east. Tiny dots at first, shapeless and unrecognizable, but drawing steadily closer to Speca’s barren shores. The horizon became dotted with them from edge to edge, until it showed itself to be a mighty armada straining forward to join the fight.
The Dragon Ships stopped in their places; some began to turn, others held fast. Orders bellowed from vessel to vessel as the awesome Dragon Ships massed into battle formations.
“They’re turning from the city!” gasped the haj, astounded.
The thief of Kalimar laughed. “Look! Can’t you see? Look to the sails!”
The first of the approaching ships came into full view, and both Homer and the haj stared in disbelief. It was the Vulture, sails full and swelled, leading what seemed to be half a thousand sleek knaars into battle.
True to its word, Aran had come.
The knaars of Aran covered the horizon, their long, slim shapes built for sturdiness in battle as well as speed. Huge sails billowed in the winds, and across their decks the rugged warriors prepared for battle, proudly defying both the raging weather and the dreaded Druid forces.
It was not long before the first of the knaars reached the shattered barriers. War cries resounded through the air; the Druids pelted the bold fighting ships with every weapon they had, but still the knaars came, slashing through the waves.
Catapults twanged lustily; decks smashed, masts broke, prows dipped below the waves. But the veterans of Aran knew only courage. Under direction of their battle-seasoned captains, they surrounded the Dragon Ships and hurled blazing balls of fire from stem to stern.
For almost an hour the battle raged; casualties mounted on both sides, the sea became littered with drowned combatants. Skillfully, the knaars tightened their web around the floundering larger ships, forcing them to stall upon the reefs while grappling ropes were flung over the sides and thousands of fierce sea warriors clambered to reach the enemy.
Ramagar and his friends mounted their steeds and rode to the citadel. Hooves trampled over smashed statues of dark lords and fiendish devils. Through the heat of smoldering fires they reached the plaza with weapons drawn. Fallen priests and Druid troops lay in disarray; bells were still chiming from the city, but fewer and fewer with the passing of time. Scorched and blackened walls greeted them silently, glazed-eyed soldiers dead in the streets blocked their path at every turn. Hug clouds of smoke fanned out everywhere, and Ramagar, his face sooty and grim, stared about at the total destruction.
The Devil’s Tower stood straight before him, a crushed shell of its former self, a lifeless hulk still swaying at its zenith. Mangled and charred corpses told something of the fight to reach the top; the haj covered his face with his hands to block out the stench of death, and sat bewildered in his
saddle while the roar of the mobs in the city heightened. All around was a shambles; untold thousands had died this day, and still the battle was far from over.
The sea battles still raged furiously and the fires in the city swelled as Ramagar and the others came to the entrance of the tower. Dismounting from his saddle, the thief made ready to fight his way through the rubble in search of Mariana. But suddenly he stopped. A strange quiet had overtaken the sky, a shattering silence that left him startled.
The haj stared up questioningly. The sky had turned black again; the rain and hail had ceased and the winds strangely calmed. There was no more thunder or lightning, and in that very moment it seemed the world itself had stopped spinning, as if nature held her breath until the lull subsided.
Perplexed, Ramagar and his companions exchanged long, worried glances. The din of the mobs had ended as well, and the freed slaves lifted their own gazes toward the sky. Something different was happening, something no one could explain.
The stallions stirred uneasily, sensing the eerie dispassion. Holding firmly on the reins, the haj swept his glance past the unseen top of the shattered tower. A thin, dark haze was spreading across the heavens, like a fog, shrouding the land from shore to shore. But as the haze descended it began to dissipate.
Homer rubbed at his eyes, turning away from the falling vapor. And when at last he peered up again he gasped. “The clouds!” he stammered. “The clouds are breaking up!”
Distant screams came from the city accompanied by frantic calls from woeful priests yet in their temples. Ramagar blinked and shut his eyes. Something was hurting, hurting his eyes so that he could not see. And it was the same for the shaken haj Burlu, who found himself unable to look up. ‘Fire!” he gasped. “The sky is on fire!”
Homer bravely defied his own pain and struggled to peer toward the clouds. Tears streamed down his diluted pupils from the brightness, but he had begun to laugh, loudly and deeply. “There is no fire!” he cried. “Look again! Look again, my friends! It’s the sun! The sun has broken through!”
And so it was; needle shafts of brilliant sunlight had begun to stream down over the city, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. Crimson-eyed Druids fell to their knees and wailed, unable to stand the light. Blinded, they moaned and cried while a jubilant roar of happiness resounded down every street.
On the sea, the Dragon Ships had ceased to attack. Blinded helmsmen staggered and stumbled while hordes of Aran’s warriors greeted the blazing ball of fire in the sky with cheers. The sun was shining fully now, spreading its glowing warmth over the barren hills and wasted rivers, through forests and fields, into crevices and recesses that had never known its light, from the peaks of the mountains down to the valleys below. Everywhere. Everywhere there was light, golden brightness bursting majestically for the first time in more than ten centuries.
Ramagar shaded his eyes for a time, letting them readjust to the brightness he had not seen in weeks. The dark haze that descended was now all but gone, burning through the last vestiges of poison and wiping it away forever. Some high clouds still scattered above, but they were soft clouds of white, gently rolling in from the sea, tinted at the edges with a flaming crimson as the sun set in the west at the end of day.
And what a glorious day it had been! Against a sudden sky of deep, rich blue the battle was won. The Druid empire had crumbled to nothing within a single day’s time. And the sun had returned, a sight to gladden any heart, to give comfort to every soul.
The lost land of Speca was free at last.
28
Dressed in a soft yellow brocaded gown of silk and lace, Mariana walked alone from her quarters toward the open veranda of the Specian palace where long ago great and heroic kings had guided the land from triumph to triumph.
The ordeals of past days were still fresh in her mind; she could still feel the sting of bitter tears welling in her eyes. Yet these many events, as fresh and recent as they were, also seemed lost in some distant past, as if the memories were more of vivid dreams than of reality. Yet real they were, she knew, and no matter how much time might pass, she could never forget. Nor would she want to. During her most frightening hours, when she had been forced to fight her way back down the Thirty Thousand Steps, battling for her very existence while the Devil’s Tower cracked around her, she had wanted nothing more than to blot these days from her mind, erase them completely. Now, though, even that wish was past. She was prepared to face the future without fear or doubt.
It was early morning. The rising sun glittered on the clear, chilly Northern waters, and cast soft shadows across the stone structures of the city.
Mariana paused in her walk to the veranda, and standing at the low balcony wall she gazed out at the calm sea, as restful as she had ever seen it. Birds were in the air, seagulls, squawking and diving towards the reefs. She hardly took notice of the shattered hulks of Dragon Ships, many still smoldering, smashed upon those same reefs and slowly breaking up, to be carried far out by the tides and lost forever. Mariana smiled and sighed; she knew she would be content with her memories, even the most painful.
There was a small flight of steps at the end of the balcony leading down to the veranda. The haj stood patiently waiting, dressed in a fine Eastern robe, his bronzed face aglitter with smiles. Mariana gave him her hand, and side by side they came to join the gathered crowd.
All her friends were there, waiting for her arrival, chatting quietly among themselves. Captain Osari and Argyle shared some small mirth, while Thorhall, accompanied by his lovely daughters and father-in-law, spoke briefly with the aged Sage of the Sklar. Homer beamed when he saw Mariana; he nudged Ramagar in the ribs, and the thief excused himself from the others to greet her with a kiss.
“Ah, Mariana,” said the Sage, turning toward her, and bowing politely. “You look beautiful.” His eyes sparkled and the dancing girl blushed.
Argyle took her hand and kissed it, saying, “I hope you passed the night well.”
The girl nodded and smiled, not mentioning to him the tears she had quietly shed after the funeral bier was set adrift. Her eyes wandered back to the sea, back to where the blazing craft carrying the body of the Prince had been launched. The fires of the boat had lighted up the sky, a lonely and forlorn flame drifting endlessly along the shores of Speca until the sea itself consumed it and brought his soul into its bosom.
Mariana heaved a deep sigh, thinking on how briefly she had really known the mysterious Prince whose life had changed her own. Like Blue Fire itself he had come and gone, both living for the same purpose, dying for the same cause. Mariana knew she had loved the Prince, and her only regret was that she could not tell him so now. He had been more than a brother, but his memory would remain strong in her thoughts forever, and she knew that Ramagar felt the same.
The haj put his hands on his hips and swelled his lungs with fresh salty air. With a single quick glance he looked across the harbor at the hundreds of anchored knaars, sails furled, waiting to return to Aran. Then he turned his attention toward the quay and to the berthed Vulture. All hands of the merchant vessel were busily readying the ship for sail, preparing happily for the long voyage back to Cenulam. In the city itself the newly freed citizens were thronging the streets, still cheering the armada before beginning the task of rebuilding their civilization.
“It’s a good sight to see, isn’t it?” observed Captain Osari to the haj.
Burlu nodded. “It is. But I fear it shall take many lifetimes before the memory of the scourge is wiped away.”
“Not so,” interrupted Old Man, sightlessly lifting his gaze toward the sun. Children were playing in the courtyards below, laughing and dancing in the sunlight as children always do. “They are our future,” the philosopher went on. “They and their own children after them. We must make certain that they grow strong and wise, for from them shall come Speca’s new leaders.”
“And the new Provisional Council will see to it,” said the aged Sage of Aran in agreement. He looked d
own at the children and smiled. “It shall take time, but not as long as you think.”
“The Prince would be pleased,” said Captain Osari with a sigh. “All his goals have been achieved. And I for one am glad to have been able to help.”
Mariana looked to the contented mariner. “When are you scheduled to sail?” she asked.
Osari grinned merrily, his thoughts now on home. “With the evening tide, Mariana,” he replied. “I’ve found everything I came here for and more. This new trade route shall make Cenulam a wealthy nation again—and I shall certainly share in those profits.”
Thorhall laughed heartily. “Aye, I’m sure you will. A free Speca shall surely add to the world’s wealth and knowledge. But tell me, have you decided not to stay here, to help in rebuilding the land? There is need of you…”
The rugged sailor shook his head. “The sea is still my calling; that can never change for me. But I’ll be back, again and again, to carry home the first cargoes and to watch the land grow.”
Thorhall nodded. He clasped the mariner’s hand and shook it firmly.
“But what about you?” Mariana asked of the wily Aranian. “Aren’t you going back to Aran? It’s more than twenty years since you’ve seen your home.”
Thorhall took the hands of both his pretty daughters and squeezed them tightly. “My home is here,” he answered, smiling and looking from one blushing girl to the other. “We have talked it over and decided. We want to help rebuild the land, do everything for her that we can. We want to see the land grow fertile, see the grasses return to the hills. Give us that much, and we shall be more than content.”
“And I feel the same,” said Homer with a beam in his eye and a smile directed at Thorhall’s eldest daughter. “The Provisional Council has asked me to take charge in city matters—a task that I hope to live up to in every way. I, too, have found my destiny here.” And the hint of a tear came to his eyes. “It was the Prince who altered the course of my life,” he continued. “Without him, I would yet be a worthless urchin in the back alleys of the Jandari. Aiding my new friends in Speca is but a small part of repaying that debt of gratitude.”
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 44