As the tumult of a sky gone mad surrounded her with its fury, Mariana folded her shivering arms and stood waiting. Her own demise would be swift in coming, and with neither tears nor sorrow she held her pitiful meter of ground while the Devil’s Tower crumbled to dust about her.
27
The celebration of the Seeding had long since been under way throughout Speca. Set apart from the merrymaking taskmasters, Ramagar and the other shackled slaves sat miserable and cold in their smelly hovels. Thorhall had successfully cut through his own bonds and had nearly succeeded in freeing the thief.
Ramagar winced with pain, his bruised ankle throbbing and swelling, as the wily Aranian finally sawed through the iron links. The metal snapped suddenly and the thief hurriedly pulled the chain off. He rubbed at his ankle and drew a long sigh of relief. In the darkness of the shack and amid the loud carryings-on of the taskmasters and their priestess whores, no one was yet aware of the strange bursts of light brightening the sky.
“Shh …” said Thorhall, a finger to his lips.
Ramagar’s eyes slitted like a panther’s. “What is it? Are there guards about?”
The Aranian shook his head; he slinked to the boarded wall and peered through a crack. There were distant rolls of thunder, he noted, a not uncommon occurrence in these climes, yet there was also a strange accompanying glow from the direction of the citadel itself.
“What do you make of that?” said Thorhall, moving aside and beckoning for the thief to have a look. Ramagar peeked through the opening and shook his head in wonder. “The sky is sparking … Look at that! It’s … It’s … crackling like timber!”
They exchanged long, fretful glances. “Could this be part of the celebration?” asked the thief.
“I’ve never seen this sort of thing before,” Thorhall admitted, as puzzled as the thief.
Suddenly they heard a bugle blast, a loud shrill wail of horns blaring in the Darkness. “It’s the Call to Arms!” cried the startled Aranian. “Coming from the garrison, no doubt, and signaling all soldiers back to duty!”
The thunder grew closer, the lightning more terrible. Outside, several of the overseers were clanging bells and hooting through whistles. “Quick! We won’t have much time now,” said Ramagar. And he pulled the sharpened stone away from Thorhall and began to free the haj. The old man grunted, then smiled with satisfaction as his bonds broke.
A burly sentry stepped inside, weapon in hand. Ramagar sprang from the shadows and knocked him down. With one move he broke the soldier’s neck, scooped up his sword, and tossed it into the waiting hands of the haj. While Burlu slipped to the entrance to watch the ensuing commotion, Ramagar worked feverishly to free Argyle and young Homer.
The haj inched outside, crawling on his belly. Across the open field in front, frightened whores, half naked, came scampering from the Druid barracks. And behind them, shirtless and sweaty, came the taskmasters and other noncommissioned officers, caught literally with their pants down at the moment of their empire’s most dire emergency.
Black stallions came galloping out of the Darkness, crimson-eyed messengers restraining their steeds from bolting while they gave the news. But by this time there was little to tell that could not be seen. The sky was raging in hues of blue, and the ground itself rumbled and shook. A shattering hurricane wind raged over the grim and barren landscape.
Ramagar reached the unlocked door and flung it wide. He shielded his eyes from flying dust and stared at the incredible sight. In the sky, thick black clouds were bursting, tingling with ripples of strange colorful brightness, and spinning about dizzily while the glow of deep blue spread rapidly from one end of the horizon to the other. It was a blue that could not be mistaken.
“Blue Fire!” Ramagar cried in jubilation. He spun and looked to his equally stunned companions. “The Prince … Mariana … They’re alive! They’ve reached the Devil’s Tower and thrown the dagger!”
“There is no other explanation,” stammered Argyle in agreement.
Bursting with the new realization that his beloved was not lost, the thief of Kalimar subdued a racing heart and watched the Druid soldiers scrambling through the camp to answer the Call to Arms amid the raging havoc.
“Now it’s our turn to play a role,” he grunted. “Druid magic may well be at an end, but this fiendish army still remains intact.”
“Aye,” said Thorhall grimly. “Every one of these devils will be mustered and rampaging over the land within hours. They’ll be bent on destruction, you can be sure. A slaughter against the helpless Specians such as the world has never seen …”
“And their Dragon Ships will ply the coasts in vengeance,” added Argyle knowingly. “They must be stopped.”
Ramagar gritted his teeth. “Then what are we waiting for, my friends? We came here to fight, didn’t we? Let’s put an end to their plans before they begin!”
And with that, the thief bolted from the hovel daringly while the wind roared against him.
A single soldier came running in his direction, weapon drawn. Ramagar drew back his arm and slammed his fist into the Druid’s face before the soldier could duck. Snatching up the fallen sword, he raced into the fray.
War cries upon their lips, both Thorhall and Argyle dashed across the compound. Those few unfortunate enough to get in their way were quickly dispatched, and the Aranians made all haste to reach the carefully protected mine — a mine whose bowels of sulphur would create a fire that would devastate the Black Forest itself.
Druids rushed to block the charge. Mighty Argyle swiveled in his place, a curved broadsword held tightly with both hands. The blade whizzed above his head, coming down with terrible speed and power and smashing heads at every side. Druids staggered at his feet, tumbling atop one another. They came at him from the left and from the right; Thorhall covered at his back, and young Homer slashed a dagger wildly to keep other pressing soldiers at bay.
The haj, meanwhile, had made his way to the shed where weapons were stored. On his heels Ramagar arrived and made short shrift of the single soldier on guard. The haj sought out their own weapons, making special note to find Argyle’s ax. Then, arms burdened with weapons, the two men rushed back outside to aid their besieged friends.
“Here, catch this!” cried the haj, tossing the huge ax in Argyle’s direction. The Aranian’s eyes glinted in the dark, a glad smile spreading over his shadowed face. And with his ax firmly in hand, he marked out a new and more ferocious circle of death, sending limbs and appendages flying as a dozen Druids fell in bloodied heaps.
Horsemen were thundering into the camp, fresh troops from the Black Forest garrison. Riding insanely into the wind, they crouched low, swinging their steel swords, tearing into the ranks of helpless, dazed Specians.
Ramagar leaped from Thorhall’s side and brought down the first of the line with a tremendous blow of his sword. The black stallion reared in panic as its rider crumpled from the saddle. And all at once the thief mounted. Spurring the animal on, he rode directly among the cavalry, hacking and slashing, creating a bold diversion so that the shackled Specians could run.
“The vats!” he cried aloud. “Spill the vats!”
The haj spun and stared at the huge pots of boiling minerals set against the sides of the mine’s entrance. Bracing his shoulder, he strained to overturn the first, veins popping from his throat in the effort. Argyle and Thorhall were soon at his side. “Heave!” shouted the seafaring Aranian. “Heave!”
The thick, hot vessel gave; the adventurers scurried to the side. As the vat fell over, great billows of molten liquid spilled with the roar of the tide, splashing over the flat terrain and burning the earth with white-hot heat.
Horses were screaming in pain from the liquid, staggering and falling, rendering their riders helpless to go on with their charge. Ramagar leaped from his own agonized steed onto the sloped roof of a hovel. Arrows and spears came flying at him, a host of archers having taken aim from their strong positions beside the barracks. From roof to ro
of the courageous thief clambered, dodging and spinning while feathered shafts whistled inches from his head.
Argyle and Thorhall were making for cover behind the high piles of sulphur sacks while brave Homer and the haj desperately tried to clear a path for the anguished slaves who were running helter-skelter in an effort to get away. Soaring arrows cut a third of them down, and forced the rest to cower among the white-hot flames of the burning liquid.
Ramagar spun at the sound of a hoarse, cruel voice. Crouching, he peered beyond the flames; then, inching to the edge of the sloped roof he found himself staring at the taskmaster himself, bullwhip in his hand. He was barking orders to frantic soldiers while lashing at a handful of frightened, cornered slaves. Taking great pleasure in his sadistic game, he laughed with bounding glee as the slaves begged and moaned and the whip pushed them back directly into the fires.
The bellicose fat man had not yet caught sight of the fleeting silhouette above. Shrouded by billows of thick, fuming smoke that danced in the wind, Ramagar grasped his small dagger firmly and slid down.
“Taskmaster!” he called, landing evenly on his feet.
The overseer turned in trepidation; he faced the daring foreigner before him dumbly, shaken by this new turn of events. But slowly his fear vanished and a broad grin crossed his face. His potbelly quivered with his mirth and he lashed the bullwhip at Ramagar’s feet. Hours of pleasure could be found in torturing this particular prisoner.
The Vizier himself had of course commanded that none of these strangers be molested in mind or body — yet the wizard was not here now, and the taskmaster could only chortle at the prospect of at last having his own way. He would rip the flesh from the arrogant thief, layer by layer, watching him squirm, until his screams begged for death.
Thunder rumbled and the ground shook. Ramagar paced while the sweaty overseer drew back the whip. Lightning flared and struck nearby; the cries of panicked horses rose above the din. The overseer lunged, Ramagar ducked. Then with the awful winds at his back, the thief threw his body into the air, striking feet first and bowling the fat man over. Together they struggled in hand-to-hand combat, the thief rolling on the ground while the sadist’s hand tried to close around his throat.
The sky was in a tumult, crackling and thundering. A deluge of rain now was turning the caked soil into mud. Ramagar slammed an elbow into the taskmaster’s jaw. The man was stunned. Ramagar raised his dagger and plunged it into soft flesh. The taskmaster groaned, hand to his belly. A thin trickle of blood stained his muddied tunic; he staggered to his feet and staggered backward and wobbled, fingers crimson with his blood.
“The keys!” cried one of the slaves. “He has the keys to our shackles!”
Without a thought for the white-hot flame already searing the overseer’s bloated body, Ramagar scrambled to the edge of the pool of liquid, straining to pull the flaming taskmaster free. While driving rain kept the flames subdued, the fearsome wind sent tongues of flame licking at the thief’s garments.
The taskmaster was still alive, screaming and writhing as Ramagar’s nimble fingers tried to pry the key chain from his belt. Finally the thief used his dagger to cut off the belt. Then he tossed it to the waiting prisoners.
“Here, free yourselves!” he shouted. And while the amazed Specians struggled to unlock their shackles, Ramagar made a hasty retreat, his hands sheltering his face, just as the fire spread and consumed the moaning sadist.
Argyle and the others were badly under siege; though the piled bags of sulphur offered good protection, they were completely surrounded and pinned down by squads of Druids. Constant barrages of whistling arrows sailed amid the rain and wind, forcing the bold adventurers to keep down low in their positions.
The sky itself seemed afire when Ramagar finally worked his way to their side. The haj bellowed in warning, and Ramagar whirled, greeting head-on a fearsome soldier thrown from his steed and now trying to bolt free from the mayhem. Ramagar deftly upended the man and sent him flying into Argyle’s waiting arms. The glittering ax came down, and with a single thrust severed the soldier’s head from his shoulders, sending it tumbling to the ground.
“We’ll never be able to hold!” cried Thorhall in despair. “They’re coming at us from every side — and more are on the way. Look!” He pointed down the dark, muddy road to where Druid cavalry were racing from the shadows.
The Druids were pressing steadily closer; they plunged from the road and over the fences of the camp, sweeping running slaves before them and trampling them down like chattel, with crashes and thuds lifting men off their feet and snapping their necks and backs.
Howls of dismay rose from the prisoners as they realized their situation. Freed at last from their chains, they were now given a choice of being cut down by the oncoming cavalry or retreating to face a fiery death from the burning minerals.
“They’re done for,” commented the haj, his heart broken at the sight.
“And so will we be,” added Argyle in somber response.
“Unless we can reach the mine,” said Ramagar. “If we can blow it, we can stop their entire advance.”
But the situation seemed hopeless. The moment they broke from their cover, a host of Druid arrows would assail them.
Anguished, the brave band looked on. But suddenly their ears caught the faint blast from afar — a sound that made them all expect the worst.
“What is it?” said Ramagar.
Thorhall shook his head. “I … I don’t know … I’m not sure … But then it came again: the sound of a horn, five short blasts in rapid succession. Thorhall strained to peer over the sides of the sacks, heedless of the snub-nosed arrows smacking clumsily into the dirt.
“It is!” he cried. “It’s them!”
And while his companions stared in confusion, a large group of shadowy figures came leaping and bounding over the fences, broad-shouldered, swarthy men, with hate in their eyes and minds intent on battle.
Thorhall’s wildmen had joined the contest.
The fearless barbarians scaled the wired perimeters, shouting war cries of old, attacking with the full force of their numbers into the lines of Druid archers and cavalry and rendering savage blows.
With the new element added to the fight the melee raged at a more furious pitch than ever. Wildmen slashed and hacked their way from one fortified line to the next, causing total havoc and forcing the hard-pressed Druids to make one hasty retreat after another. And while all this was happening, the freed Specian slaves began to come out of their drugged stupors and, sweeping up the enemy’s fallen weapons, added further fuel to the din of battle.
Argyle and Thorhall looked at each other and laughed.
Then bolting from their places, they full-heartedly joined the fray.
“Now’s our chance,” exhorted Ramagar. With the haj and Homer beside him, the thief dashed into the open and across the bloodied field. The ground was carpeted with bodies; slaves, wildmen, dozens upon dozens of fallen Druids. Arrow shafts poked up from the earth like grisly blades of grass; there were helmets and spears, knives and swords, limbs and torsos stuck in mud and pools of dark blood. Boiling minerals sizzled as the Specians turned over the last of the vats, spilling the liquid at the oncoming Druid horsemen. Rain was pouring down, the ground shook with thunder, and lightning flashed while searing color raced across the heavens.
Ramagar stooped and picked up a thick stick. While the haj watched with puzzlement, the thief tore strips of linen from his shirt, wrapped them carefully around the head of the stick, and ignited his torch by poking it into a pool of fiery mineral. The torch sprang magnificently into flame, sending streaks of fire spinning in the wind. Then on toward the entrance to the mine they ran, mindless of the danger to themselves.
Three mail-clad Druids charged from the side. Distant cavalry pressed to reach the thief and stop him. Eyes wild with desperation, the mail-clad soldiers lunged for the haj. Burlu met the first with an overhand blow that crushed both helmet and skull, then quickly wove
a web of flying steel at the others while Ramagar slipped closer to the dark, descending shaft.
“Hurry, Ramagar!” called the worried haj, fending off blows and keeping a wary eye to the approaching cavalry.
The thief grunted, and replied, “Run like the devil when I throw!” Onto his belly he dived as spears came flying. The sordid smell of sulphur burst upon his nostrils; gathering a handful of loose sulphur he quickly spread it thinly in a snaking line down to the shaft, a short fuse giving perhaps ten or fifteen seconds’ time to make his getaway.
The haj thrust, countered, parried, and thrust again. His blade caught the second soldier unaware and the Druid reeled back, hands to his throat where his jugular had been cut. The last of the enemy abandoned all defensive tactics; wildly he threw himself at the aging swineherd. Burlu lost touch with his opponent’s blade; holding breath, he leaned aside, dodging the thrust, then came back up with one of his own. He could feel the bite of steel as it grazed his arm, feel his own weapon pulse up through the Druid’s gut and tear into his heart. The soldier fell with the blade; the haj turned to seek out the coming horses. “Now, Ramagar! Now!”
The thief backstepped outside; he lifted the torch and threw it down at the edge of the fuse. Sulphur sizzled and the flames danced. And back toward the piles of sacks they ran with reckless abandon. The charging cavalrymen pulled sharply on the reins and tried to turn their steeds about. At sight of the lighted fuse the horses bolted in terror, screaming and bucking.
The fuse wisped its way lower and lower into the shaft, out of sight now, save for the crimson shadows reflected by the dull earthen walls.
Ramagar and the haj leaped for shelter. The first explosion rocked the camp like nothing they had ever seen; horses and riders were sent flying into the air like dolls, scream upon scream, limbs being wrenched from their bodies as a flood of dragon-like fire spewed from the shaft.
Ramagar scrambled to his knees, feeling as though his head had been beaten by a sledgehammer. Druids were trying to run in every direction before him, but the second explosion sent them slamming to the ground again, unable even to move while a new fire tore across the length of the camp. The wooden edifices were turning into raging timber, flames rising higher and higher until the entire camp had become an oven.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 43
