While Oram had been pursuing his solitary life, Tralane plunged into the life of traveler and bard, drawing the attention of courtiers and peasants alike with tales of gods and heroes learned from Mathi and his books. He remembered his early days in the courts of the southern kingdoms, basking in the praise and favors lavished on him. He had been there when Lord Yshaleth eliminated his seven brothers. Tralane had been the court fool and had promised to provide the brothers with a means to escape the mad Lord. Had they really taken him, the court fool, seriously? He shrugged the memory aside, as Oram continued.
Tralane knew of the boredom and melancholy that had assailed Oram during his self-imposed exile. They were the same feelings he had known with Mathi, the same feelings which returned to him whenever he spent too much time away from people. He understood Oram's pain, loss, and hunger for the raw emotions and excitement generated whenever people came together. Tralane's uneasiness with his own past and the feelings that lay beneath his fantasies shifted to his growing identification with Oram.
He was relieved when Oram's story finally seemed ready to land in the present. Tralane tore himself away from his own thoughts and focused his attention on Oram.
"Thus was I living until recently, camped by the inland sea the Tribe Nations call the Thesa," Oram was saying. "I was hunting with a party of Geshayen when we came across four of those grim knights. We hailed them and held our weapons aloft as a sign of peace, thinking perhaps they were part of some kingdom's exploratory expedition. But no sooner were we among them than we felt their steel and lances. We could not bring them down. Our arrows found chinks in their armor and our blows dented their helmets, but all our skill and strength was wasted on them. They could not be stopped. Three of us survived and broke off. Together we rode back to the Geshayen camp.
"We found the Clan Lord and told him what had happened. Before he could gather the family heads, a large band of knights appeared behind us and charged into the camp. They came on us like a sudden tempest wind, blowing through the camp before we could even see who they were. We were lost. The warning was for nothing."
Oram shrugged and tossed a bone aside. He was talking with new-found intensity.
"No doubt their sudden appearance was the Sorcerer King's doing. Behind the knights came the human foes, and from these the Geshayen took a heavy toll. But there were too many enemy swords and lances, far too many for the few hundred of us in the camp. Everything was burned or taken. My wagon and most of my load was destroyed. The earth was muddy with blood from slaughter.
"I knew then what my father had felt when his life and home were taken away from him. I fought with a madness on me. I took a glancing blow on the head from a knight's lance, and when I awoke I was discovered and taken prisoner. My rage by then was dead. I had nothing left. The King saw I had knowledge he needed, so he spared me, made me his guide. What could I do but accept? The remaining Geshayen were killed after they were questioned and deemed useless by the King. Their bodies were fed to the kruushkas.
"I managed to salvage some of my goods, though I don't know why I bothered. I'll never trade them. All they do is remind me of the past, and I can't bring myself to part with that. It's all I have left."
Oram turned to Tralane and spoke to him directly. "This host is stronger, by virtue of the King and his unnatural allies, than any that has seen the light of our sun. I'm sure by now you've realized his intentions are not friendly. I have been told by the camp followers, whom I travel with, that this army comes from a world parallel to ours, though it is not an exact duplicate in every detail. The run of the land is similar; it has two moons and the same beasts and plants, and the folk speak the Sky Speech just as we do. Perhaps we both have twins who are following roughly the same road through life."
He stopped and seemed to ponder the thought of another life for himself, catching up with himself on another world where he had chosen another path. There was an instant of hope, but it died as it was born, and Oram's gaze fell.
"However, different fates rule this other world, and so the course of history has followed a slightly different path. In that world the Sorcerer King rose to supreme power. He answered to no one, not even the gods. But the gods have no love of men who would be greater than they, and caused the Wandering Moon to start falling slowly to earth. So the King led his army here, since it is easier for him to flee than to fight the gods. He intends to conquer and subdue this world. Then, with the power of this world's sorcery in his control, he'll challenge the gods directly."
Tralane fixed his mind on Oram's revelations concerning Agathom and his background. He was fascinated by the prospect of meeting his own double on an alternate earth. He took the premise a step further: how many other parallel worlds were there? How many Tralanes? The works of magic he had studied had hinted at an infinity of existences, but had not discussed any method of reaching them. Would it not make a fine adventure, he asked himself with swelling pride and a sense of grandeur, to seek his other selves out, to gather them all and form a merry band of bards and archers? And if some were not quite like him, if some were outright cutthroats, thieves, or perhaps warrior heroes and kings…
Tralane chucked, escaping into his dreams, forgetting the man before him.
"I see nothing amusing in what I've told you," Oram said, gnawing at the end of a bone, glaring at him through sullen eyes.
"Oh no, I wasn't laughing at you. I was thinking of something else," Tralane said lightly. Then he asked, "But what of these gods? Is their wrath going to follow the Sorcerer King?"
Oram finished his meal, replaced the cloth-wrapped side of meat behind the chest, stood up, and stretched. He picked up several furs which were loosely tied together by thongs, slipped them on and tightened the knots so they fitted snugly around his body. He scratched at the white hide britches he wore and smoothed them against his skin.
"I don't know," he said finally, sleepily. His eyes were dull, his mouth hung slightly open. His every word was an effort. The energy which had possessed him was gone. He had reached for something in his remembrances, striven for a hidden meaning and fallen short. He collapsed back into the present. "But perhaps our gods will be offended by his lust before he can gather the strength to topple them, and one of our moons will fall in answer to his greed."
"A fascinating, though unpleasant proposition." Tralane leaned back and blew out his breath in disgust. "I'm beginning to regret my ready acceptance of the Sorcerer King's hospitality."
"That, my friend, is your problem." The white-haired giant slung some furs over his shoulder and headed for the tent flap. "Give him what he wants, and he'll let you live. The price he asks is not too high."
"No. I just hope my funds don't run out."
Oram grunted. "I have some business to attend to among the camp followers. I leave you to your own thoughts and questions."
Tralane nodded and watched Oram stride out into the sunlight. Neither moon had risen. He wished Mathi had trained him in the arts of sky watching so that he might have known when Star Speaker or Wanderer would make their next appearance. Mathi had never been generous with his knowledge, even to his only apprentice and adopted son. Basic spells and the remnants of a discipline he had rebelled against, a wealth of legends drawn from books and Mathi's lectures, and the skills of archery and mannered speech were Tralane's only legacies. They would be of no help in his current situation; only the things he had learned in his travels would buy his continued existence.
Tralane shook his head and dismissed his useless recollections with a curse. He settled in a comfortable corner of the tent, gathered some furs over him, and began going over his knowledge of the world, like a farmer counting his coin before going to market.
Chapter 2
The King's puppet-like servant called for Tralane well after Oram had departed. He appeared at the tent opening, peered in and made several guttural noises. Startled, Tralane whirled around to face the source of the noise, saw the servant, and smiled.
"Y
our master calls, eh? Tell him I'll be right along."
Tralane threw the remaining furs off of his legs and stood, then straightened his soiled and slightly ragged clothes. If he had lingered a little while longer on the battlefield, he might have pieced together a decent suit of clothes from the soldiers who would no longer need any garments. But such were the rigors of war that he had not had time to rummage through a field of corpses. He had been fortunate to escape without a wound.
He found the servant waiting for him outside the tent. At the sight of the bard, Agathom's lackey limped toward the Sorcerer King's pavilion. Tralane followed him at a leisurely pace, preferring to bask along with the rest of the members of the host in the late afternoon sun and so steady, his nerves, rather than rushing headlong into a conference on which his life in Agathom's camp might depend. He relaxed by taking in his surroundings.
Above, long wispy clouds stretched across the darkening sky. Star Speaker had finally risen and was hovering low on the edge of the world. Troop banners barely stirred as the hint of a breeze ran its cool fingers over the land, heralding the night which crept up behind it. Women, their skirts trailing in the dirt and their breasts bared, hurried about preparing food and ignoring the men's taunts and openly playful invitations. The flocks of wenoths were being driven into the stockades, their gray hides blending into the dusk so that their short, high-pitched bleats sounded like the calling of ghosts. Shui skins were stretched between poles while, beneath them, young girls wrestled with the carcasses, separating meat from the bones.
Some of the men were playing games of chance with sticks notched with symbols, but most were concerned with fortifying their camp and cleaning their weapons and armor. Not far from Tralane's path, an herb healer accompanied by a wizard of mediocre strength was visiting a cluster of people injured during the course of the day. Tralane did not see any young children, an unusual trait for a host with so many women and in exile from its land of origin. He wondered what price the women had been forced to pay for their part in Agathom's scheme of existence.
Despite the martial atmosphere, the camp lacked the tension of an army preparing for war. Tralane could not but admire the host's confidence and well-disciplined organization. Like the servant and the knights, Agathom's people seemed to be an extension of his will, answerable only to him and thus protected from any external danger by his power over them. Like the nobility of courts ruled by mad lords, Agathom's people had in them arrogance founded on their King's strength and fear for the safety of their own positions, should they ever fail their master or outlive their worth.
The servant stopped just outside the entrance to the Sorcerer King's pavilion, next to a knight standing guard. Tralane gave them both a mock bow of thanks and entered.
"Greetings, Tralane," the Sorcerer King said without looking up from a large map spread out on a table at the other end of the enclosure. His short, limp hair had fallen over his bald spot as he bent down to his work. "I hope you rested well?"
"I used the time to my advantage." Tralane approached the table, weaving his way through groupings of unlit candles stuck into man-sized holders ornately carved into stretched-out figures of demons. The air was thick with many-colored smoke and unrecognizable scents. The tent's roof shimmered with unearthly greens and reds. Tralane's eyes watered and his stomach felt queasy from some of the more pungent aromas. Tralane had the sensation of having entered a new, alien environment. He tried to ignore his discomfort, and suppressed a dizzying rush of anxiety.
When he reached Agathom's side, he peered intently at the finely detailed chart before him, then gave the Sorcerer King's abode a quick study. He found nothing more unusual than a collection of cabinets, chests, and a few plush, wood-framed chairs. There was no tangible source of danger which would explain the uneasiness which gnawed at Tralane's will. His experiences with sorcery had not prepared him for the intensely ambiguous atmosphere in which Agathom seemed so comfortable. It contradicted Mathi's practice of attempting to clarify visions of the earthly and unearthly, to see mysteries in the light of hidden truths and not fear.
Smoke rolled back and forth across the enclosed space with tidal regularity, eddies curling around candleholders and waves breaking against Tralane's body.
"I noticed your army is well provisioned," Tralane ventured in a thick voice. "You even brought your own herd animals. How long have you been traveling?"
The Sorcerer King glanced up from the table and gave Tralane a quizzical look. "How much has Oram told you?"
Confused by the directness of the question, Tralane hesitated in answering.
"Never mind. I suppose the oaf told you all he knows and thinks he knows about me. I've seen him questioning my people." The King turned his attention back to the map. "It will save me the time of explaining my purpose to you."
Tralane felt as if he had somehow lost an advantage by his hesitation. He rubbed his moist palm across his sweating brow and gasped for more air.
"That is the most detailed map of the world I've ever seen," he said.
The Sorcerer King ignored his statement and moved around the table. "Tell me," he said curtly after a few moments had passed, "are there any major cities along this river?"
Tralane answered, and the Sorcerer King followed with another question. He continued into the night. As Tralane added details to the map, Agathom made notations and pressed for further information. Slowly but accurately, Tralane fielded the probes. He became a living book of knowledge, all other aspects of his personality having disintegrated. Under the Sorcerer King's influence, he was reduced to the sum of his objective observations of the lands he had passed through, without the feelings and memories, both sad and happy, which were attached to his adventures. Agathom showed him the true meaning of detachment, a state Tralane had always prided himself in having. Buried beneath the weight of strange sensations, a part of the bard was shocked into wakefulness and cried in horror at what it saw.
Finally, the Sorcerer King held up his hand. "That is enough for tonight. We will remain encamped until I've gained a working knowledge of these southern kingdoms and their politics, which you seem to know so well. But they won't pose as much of a problem as this Empire. You must tell me all you know of its great sorcerers, what they have done and when they seek to rest, so that I can divine the source of their strength. I will call for you tomorrow morning."
He dismissed Tralane with a wave of his hand and rolled up the map. Tralane nodded dumbly and walked out without so much as a backward glance to see what the Sorcerer King's next act might be.
Once outside, Tralane's head cleared as the sharp night air, with an edge of smoke from the cooking fires, cut through the webs of Agathom's lair. The raucous laughter of people shook him out of his stupor. A belligerent self-confidence filled the void left by his encounter. He had survived and returned to his own world. Feeling relieved and refreshed, Tralane gratefully put to rest his ordeal and started towards the nearest fire, ignoring the efforts of the Sorcerer King's servant to lead him back to his tent. He was careful to avoid paying any heed to the stoic Knights of Blackness who now ringed the Sorcerer King's pavilion.
As he approached the fire, he spotted Oram, who was surrounded by a jovial group of warriors and women laughing at the big man's talk. Tralane stopped for a moment, observing the crowd. Most were drunk, and Oram's wineskin was making its way through their number, leaving a wake of fortified merriment behind it. Here was a chance for Tralane to make himself popular in the camp and gain friends, influence and information. He might one day need the security of friends to mediate between him and the Sorcerer King, and he had to discover whom in the camp he could count on for a patron.
And in the crowd there was also the opportunity to relieve his mind of the weight that had gradually accumulated over the course of the day, and to assert himself over his surroundings. He strode forward.
He greeted Oram with a shout. "Hey, large one, we meet again!"
Oram squinted at Tralane,
his face creasing into a relief map of rugged terrain. "Is that the newcomer? Yes, yes, that's the one I was telling you about. That's the whelp in my tent."
The people stared with bemused expectation at Tralane. He smiled at them benignly, then took a barrel lying on its side and rolled it into the middle of the gathering. He upended it, sat, and looked at Oram.
"I see you've found some company tonight," he said, pointing at the women on either side of Oram. "Will I be able to come in tonight to get some sleep?"
"Ah, dark Crecia and my lively little Fatome," the giant cooed amorously, fondling both of them in his hefty arms. "Yes, they've been very comforting, haven't they, eh?"
Fatome laughed, her husky voice mingling with Oram's. But Crecia flashed her eyes across Tralane's figure, and her gaze warmed him.
"Well, I've had less pleasant company tonight. I've been giving old Agathom a lesson in geography and politics. He's a queer one, isn't he?"
An old woman, sober by her walk, parted from the suddenly stilled crowd. She came up to Tralane and whispered hoarsely, "Don't mention his name, fool, or do you want his wrath to fall down on all of us?"
"Eh? What did the old witch say?" Oram mumbled, clumsily rising to his feet with the help of Fatome. He staggered over to Tralane, leaned on him and said to the old woman, "Did you say not to mention Agathom's name? Why shouldn't my young friend say it? Let him shout it, scream it!" Oram started back towards his friends.
Tralane tried to hold him back, admonishing him to be still, but Oram broke free, spinning and stumbling over prostrate, drunken bodies. He turned his face to the sky, and the fire and moonlight cast eerily conflicting shadows across his visage, shading his skin and hair in unnatural colors. His eyes flickered as emotions clashed, battering at the core of his being. Whatever demonic passion possessed him seemed ready to burst out into the night. Tralane looked away, embarrassed at the spectacle Oram was making of himself and at the unexpected pity he felt for the giant. Instead, he watched the fire. The fuel consisted of broken boards, wheel spokes, clumps of brush and wood, and several dried-grass mats the Tribe Nations used to build their shelters. A part of Oram's past was burning before uncaring revelers.
The Bard of Sorcery Page 3