Unblinking, Gathelaus watched the shaft as it was about to strike his breast and swiftly, though almost casually, leaned aside, letting the missile bypass within a hairsbreadth.
“That’s speed of a viper and will of iron, there,” said a merchant.
“Or stupidity,” said another.
“Damn you! I said I come in peace with a message!” he shouted.
The Yanissary commander smacked the overeager bowman over the head, and only then did the stranger trot his horse closer.
“Give me a moment that I may hear you,” Gathelaus said.
The Yanissary commander nodded, beckoning his welcome with palms outward, the sign of peace and truce in the desert kingdoms.
Gathelaus tore the turban from his scalp as he approached, revealing dark hair, close cropped. Stubble covered in dust covered the bottom half of his face. To them he was a foreigner. His sunburned face and exposed hands painted him red-bronze. He wore faded black leather breeches made of a multitude of patches sewn together. The ox-hide boots were dull and cracked, and his open vest and sweat-stained linen shirt were not much better. The only articles in fine shape were his weapons: a sturdy horn bow, a light Valchiki shield of woven leather and reeds; and a broadsword and matching brazen spear from his homeland over the sea, snow-clad Vjorn. Such items were well crafted and bore the marks of frequent, and likely bloody, use. He had everything a fighting man might need, save armor. But in the heat of these desert hinterlands, none wore armor, or if he did, he wore very little.
A white-bearded man in a bright yellow tunic pushed to the forefront of the crowd, saying, “I am Vareem, master of this caravan. Who are you? And what lord sends us this message?”
Halting only a dozen paces from the gathering guardsmen and posturing merchants, Gathelaus answered, “I am Khyte of Vjorn, a veteran sell-sword. I fought for the emperor of Sen-Toku in the War of fifty-two against the Bhustani’s, and then later in fifty-seven against the Galinese city states, and now I want an ear and respect for what I must say.” His eyes darted about, watching everyone and everything, not in the fearful manner of a craven, but that of a wary hunter, ever vigilant and tensed.
The Yanissary commander, decorated with several badges of honor, stepped forward. “I am Barzelai, the Yanissary captain. We have fought in the same wars and paid the same price. Apologies for my foolish underling firing upon you. Who is your lord?” He beckoned for Gathelaus to continue.
“I serve no lord but was riding due west to sell my sword in Scalia or fetch a ship in Dar-Al-Hambra when I passed over your trail.”
Vareem grimaced. “Your rudeness belies your lack of critical thinking. You have halted my entire caravan for pointless pleasantries. What do you want, outlander?”
“You have missed a crucial detail in your journey.” He kept a vigilant eye upon all before him, not wanting to miss a single response.
“Why tell us this?”
Gathelaus leaned forward in the saddle, squinting against the sunlight. “On account you don’t know that there is also a band of forty-plus men moving parallel to you. They have trailed you for the last few days, just out of site beyond that ridge.”
One of the junior officers broke in. “And why should they wait to attack us?”
Another jeered, “And how do we know this man isn’t one of them spying upon us?”
Gathelaus scoffed, “They already know your numbers and tactics. They don’t need a spy.”
“But why wait?”
Gesturing out to the rising red cliffs and canyons, Gathelaus said, “Because we’re farther out into the uninhabited wilderness and away from all possible help. Likely we’re much closer now to the lair where they may hide up their treasure. You saved them the trouble of hauling it. I expect they plan to attack by morning, kill all your men, loot the valuables, and take the women for slaves.”
“And what is your advice, outlander?”
“Don’t get into that notch yonder. They might have more men planning to fully ambush you there.”
Vareem sniffed again as he took a pinch of snuff. “And why would you suggest such an ambush?”
Gathelaus grinned. “Because it’s what I would do, if I had not changed my ways.”
“Are you saying we must sit and wait, rather than traveling on?”
“Yes. Build defensive positions tonight and be prepared for more tomorrow.”
Barzelai shook his head. “You are an outlander and cannot fully understand. We dare not camp overnight in this cursed valley, but must press on.”
“They are swifter than this caravan. Running won’t solve this,” said Gathelaus. “Perhaps they are as superstitious as you and won’t be eager to attack here. But they will eventually, and this might be the best place to wait them out. Soon enough they will run out of water. They are all on horseback and have limited supplies.”
“That is sound logic. But why should you, an outlander, do this for us?”
“Because it is the way of the desert to help another in need; and I am nearly out of water myself. Plus, I don’t care much for bandits.”
Vareem leaned in and whispered in Barzelai’s ear. The Yanissary commander nodded. Though he still eyed the man they knew as Khyte suspiciously. Vareem admitted, “I agree that if what he has spoken is true, it is the wisest council. But first I will consult the seeress and roll the bones. If they support him, we shall do as he advises.”
“But here?” asked a short, fat merchant, “in the Desolation of the damned?”
“We have no choice,” snapped Vareem before disappearing into a silk shrouded wagon.
Gathelaus furrowed his brow. “What is in this valley? There is grass just yonder for the livestock. I have seen nothing of danger but the bandits.”
“Slake your thirst with this outlander, while I explain,” shouted Barzelai, tossing the wineskin as hard as he could.
Gathelaus caught the swift underhanded throw with the speed of a striking asp. He stared hard at the commander, scrutinizing his behavior.
Barzelai’s eyebrows raised in satisfaction. He nodded. “Vareem said you were quick dodging that arrow. I wanted to see how quick up close.”
Before guzzling the strong Yanaian brew, Gathelaus said, “The arrow was quicker. Any more tests?” He finished the skin, then tossed it back.
Barzelai’s jovial face darkened. “Aye, there will be tests enough when we see what these raiders shall do. In the Desolation between city-states men are always tested, but those that make it through will be richly rewarded. Judging by your poor accouterments, I suspect any amount of pay will do you well, eh? That is old equipment you bear indeed, outlander.”
“These have served me well enough,” he said, patting his sword hilt.
“I need your sword on this journey. What do you say?”
Dusting his worn clothing, Gathelaus dismounted, then nodded. He stared intently at Barzelai to be sure that he read each word across his lips right.
“Then you are no longer an outlander, but my friend. So tell me, Khyte, you closely watch us speak. Are you still grappling with our language? So different from the Northern wastes, I am sure.”
“Yes, I am still learning. Tell me more about this place. Why do you fear it?”
“Fear? No, it is a healthy respect. This valley that we travel upon is named the Vale of Desolation, and it must be traveled over before nightfall. You mentioned grass that our animals might eat? No, it is upon land where much blood has been spilt. To let our animals graze there would invite much bad luck. I might add it is rumored to be laid over the top of a legendary city of old Maleun, back before the madness seized that great civilization and the desert swallowed it. All accounts say it was one week’s travel from the coast and upon the edge of the red-canyon lands. So it is safe to say that it is beneath our feet even now.”
“Words and superstitions,” said Gathelaus.
“No, my new friend, no. Many times, I have crossed this desert myself, and each time I have seen strange and hideous things. Many times, w
e have found the remains of caravans bleaching in the sun.”
“Nothing strange about bandits raiding.”
“These bandits, as you call them, are new in our land. It is the younger generation that has no respect for their elders that turns to the dishonorable practice. No, when I was a boy, no one would raid the caravans—yet still they would be taken.”
“Now who is being naive?”
“I did not say no one did evil things, but merely that my people did not become raiders. These caravans would be found in the desert still loaded with gold, jewels, and spices. Superior vintages of wine left to bake in their kegs. No, no one was raiding for goods, my friend. It was the ghosts of old Maleun returning to evoke their madness.”
“I guess I believe in ghosts. And I agree that they don’t drink wine, nor take treasures of the earth.” Gathelaus gazed out over the windswept bleakness. “But they don’t kill people, either.”
Barzelai shrugged. “I am only telling you what I have seen with my own two eyes. Treasures were left to rot while their owners were torn to pieces and desiccated under an invincible sun.”
“Now, that’s something different. I thought you were saying they just up and disappeared.”
“No, my friend. They were eaten… at least in part.”
“Ghosts, by definition, don’t eat.”
Barzelai leaned in, serious as could be. “I know what you will say. Vultures like those above us, eh? No, my friend, no. I have seen able-bodied Yanissaries and fair caravan maidens whose faces were blackened by the long sun, frozen in horror. Though every drop of their blood was drained and dried from them, making them appear as so much driftwood, I could not mistake the terrible claw-marks upon their faces and torsos. Something devoured their hearts and drank their blood, and it was no vulture nor jackal.”
Gathelaus nodded. “You’re saying if we remain here tonight, we invite death as much as we do from those bandits?”
“One is as certain as the other, my friend; but I would rather have my death be upon the hot steel of a bastard’s tulwar than in the belly of a cursed beast.”
17.
Green Fire
They waited while Vareem rolled the bones and listened to the seeress in her myrrh-scented carriage. When he exited a short time later, men made jokes and whispered behind his back that it had not been nearly long enough to couple with her, while others argued that to remain a seeress she must remain pure as the driven snows of Vjorn. Either way, tongues wagged and Gathelaus wondered whether any useful decision could be made in such a hotbed of rumor and gossip.
Vareem prepared to address the anxious throng. Just as they had moments ago laughed behind his back, they were now compelled to follow whatever decision he proclaimed. “Attention, attention. I have spoken with Vashti and she has seen that we are to move on. So let the caravan continue, and if there is indeed any danger we will have the fortifications of the cliffs about us that we might hedge up the way of the raiders… if they exist,” he muttered at the last.
“I couldn’t have heard you right. Were you calling me a liar?” Gathelaus shouted, narrowing his gaze at Vareem from across the way.
“I called you nothing, outlander. I merely do as the gods insist.” Several of the Yanissaries moved in concert to protect Vareem from the hinted assault betrayed by a bitter Northerner’s gaze.
Gathelaus tensed, preparing to duel. Always his eyes scanned every direction for danger, as his other three senses flared to catch the scent of a well-oiled scabbard, touch of a treacherous hand, or taste the hint of nervous fear on the wind.
Another pair of Yanissaries moved in to flank Gathelaus, their glinting swords at the ready.
“Enough of this! He is one of us now!” shouted Barzelai.
The murderous situation would have lasted longer, but for the sudden cry of a harem girl standing beside the commander. “Look there, above the dunes! As the outlander said!”
A trio of men on horseback watched from the bluff. On each side of the darkly mounted men another rider appeared, until they lined the entire horizon upon the bluff like dark buzzards. As Gathelaus had warned, there were at least forty of the grim-faced bandits.
“As I have mentioned, these naughty children, they grow bold these days,” said Barzelai, thumbing the edge of his scimitar.
“I suspect that because we stopped, they are puzzled and may attack us even now,” grumbled Vareem. “We must away!”
“Khyte speaks the truth. They will run us down if we flee.”
“Do you wish to tempt fate staying upon this accursed ground?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. We move.”
Gathelaus interrupted, putting his weather-beaten hand on Vareem’s shoulder. “Tempt fate? We know what those bandits will do. They will ride us down and pick us off one by one. You must see that? Let us stand and fight!”
“Take your hand from me, outlander!”
Barzelai edged between the two. “He is caravan master, my friend. We follow his orders. As I have said, I know what one enemy may do, but not the demons of the desert. We ride.”
Gathelaus grimaced. “I am with you, but I’ll hang back. I’d rather face death head-on than have them creep up my backside.”
Barzelai clapped Gathelaus on the shoulder and laughed heartily. “Together we’ll send those devils back to hell! My spear!”
The caravan slowly rolled away, sand running from the wagon spokes and fearful glances from the civilized and pampered occupants. The red cliffs pitted with dark spots loomed ahead, granting somber welcome.
Sweat beaded on Gathelaus’s forehead as he squinted at the still-waiting bandits. “They aren’t moving yet.”
“So we have a head start, my friend,” laughed Barzelai.
“I doubt it. I think they want us to move into that canyon.”
The caravan crawled on with a pair of Yanissaries leading the way. The remaining twenty trailed behind with Barzelai and Gathelaus.
“Are your men better than an average bandit? Maybe twice as good?”
“I would say so, my friend. They have each been trained with the sword from childhood. To wear the turquoise sash of a Yanissary denotes the finest of schooling in fencing. All but three sport the long mustache of a veteran. We could meet those forty at a head and leave them bleeding enough to think better of it.” Barzelai followed Gathelaus’s roving gaze. “Why do you ask?”
“There’re more.”
Howling like wolves, twenty riders came in fast, flanking from the east; their scimitars catching sunlight on honed edges.
Half of the caravan froze while the others took the whip to their animals and sped away in chaotic abandon.
Gathelaus saw the original forty on the bluffs, save three, charge to join their brothers in the fray. Drawing his bow, he loosed and took a raider in the chest.
The Yanissaries joined in, dropping a dozen of the attackers or their mounts. Several bandits, having lost their horses, drew their sabers and ran forward like devils to complete their assault.
The bandits swiftly moved inside the caravan’s circle, spoiling the shots of all but the most skilled bowmen. They slashed at the Yanissaries and merchants alike, even crippling several of the horses and camels.
Gathelaus charged an especially large raider and sent his spear through the man’s leather-studded tunic.
Another bandit swung wildly and broke the maple shaft of Gathelaus’s spear.
Barzelai rode in and brought his horse into the fight, letting the well-trained beast kick a bandit from the saddle and trample him.
A woman gave a silent scream as one of the shrouded wagons took fire. Black smoke belched into the sky quicker than Gathelaus would have believed possible.
Barzelai shouted at Khyte, but the outlander could not hear the captain, so beset was he by a pair of bandits. Throwing his helm in a raider’s face, Barzelai distracted the pair enabling Gathelaus to slay them.
The blazing wagon roared with a devouring gre
en witch-fire, sending smoking black tendrils across it. Wretched fumes spewed from a score of canopic jars into the sky, roiling on their way up. The alchemist and his wife, on foot, ran blindly toward the cliffs.
Gathelaus turned in the saddle just as Barzelai knocked him off his horse and slammed him to the ground. The wind whooshed from his lungs and Barzelai lay atop him.
He coughed, “Are you mad?”
Barzelai said, “Stay down, my friend, stay down.”
Gathelaus panicked, seeing a handful of bandits circling them only a few paces away, swords raised.
But Barzelai held him down, covering almost all Gathelaus’s body with his own greater bulk. “Stay down, my friend, stay down.”
An explosion ripped the atmosphere. Hot air slapped Gathelaus in the face. The foes that had recently stood so near, ready to deal death, were swept away in a green flash.
Barzelai went limp.
Gathelaus easily pushed the bigger man off. He blinked and wiped his eyes, trying to catch his breath. A fine, black creosote coated everything.
Barzelai was dead, his back ripped open from the blast and pin-cushioned with shards from the wagon.
“I am indebted, my friend, and will honor your sacrifice,” whispered Gathelaus.
It took a few moments for Gathelaus to adjust his sight beyond the few feet near him. Nothing moved but taunting smoke and dancing wisps of flame. At least a score of blackened bodies lay strewn about. One was a woman, her doll-like face shielded by a dead horse.
Gathelaus struggled to stand. A horrid ringing in his ears went silent and he realized he was at the least temporarily deaf. No sound came to him of any form, though he shook his head, hoping to hear something.
The black blast of creosote reached fifty paces out. A bandit, thrown from the explosion yet lived. He struggled to crawl away, dragging his useless, shattered legs behind him.
Leaning upon his sword a moment, Gathelaus rested, then smote the enemy on the neck.
The headless body raised on its hands, struggled for breath, then fell still.
Gazing across the desert, Gathelaus saw a handful of raiders retreating from the scene, though the caravan had fared little better. The half that had stopped with the alchemist were char as well as every man and woman near them. Those that fled on foot were almost to the canyons now. They looked to have been running at least ten minutes to be as far away as they were.
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