Aladdin scanned the faces of his friends. Christóbal and the sultan avoided his eyes. There was little for them to add; it was Aladdin’s decision alone. To go with Shaman meant danger, perhaps death. Should Aladdin survive the perils, there was no guarantee the magician would be true to his promise. On the other hand, should he reject the bargain, Fatima’s fate would be sealed for all time.
There was really no choice at all for Aladdin. Revenge must wait. What was a single year, anyway? Certainly not too much to give in return for the happiness of his friend and the safety of his bride.
Aladdin pondered for a long while. Then he said, “All right. I’ll come.” Shaman smiled thinly, and Aladdin was quick to add, “But understand fully that our business isn’t over. We have a score to settle, you and I, and I won’t rest until that matter is resolved. One way or another.” The implication was plain enough. “I agree,” said Shaman. In one year we have an appointment.” It seemed to pain him to talk now, as he dropped his hands and stood stiffly. “Now I must make preparations.”
“One other thing, Shaman. Christóbal is my constant companion through thick and thin. Where I go, he goes; where I fight, he fights.”
The old man studied the big Spaniard pointedly. The bullnecked soldier-of-fortune was more than impressive in strength. “If Christóbal is willing to come, then I have no objections. As for payment for his services...”
“I seek no pay from bloodied hands,” growled the giant.
Shaman shrugged. “As you wish.”
The Spaniard went on, “Nor could a herd of wild stallions keep me away from this rendezvous.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his thick brows menacingly. “Should anything happen to the capitán during this time, understand that I shall personally take his place in collecting your head.”
The dying man nodded, unperturbed. “I look forward to that appointment. For now, however, there is no time to be lost. It is imperative that my ship sail with the morning tide” He bowed stiffly before the silent sultan, and slowly shuffled from the hall.
Aladdin watched him go with the feeling that Shaman’s degeneration was worsening by the hour. He wondered if the sickly stranger would survive a full year. Then, sighing in resignation, he looked at the looming Spaniard. “We’d better start to make preparations of our own, compadre.”
Christóbal nodded dourly. “Right away, my friend. But tell me, where are we supposed to be going?”
Aladdin smiled without humour. “Like the verse of your children’s song, Christóbal. We travel the road to Cinnabar.”
Chapter Nine
Aladdin couldn’t sleep. For hours he has tossed and turned, his mind swimming with the torrent of events that had altered the course of his life. Still a few hours before dawn, the few lamps burning in windows across the city flickered dimly against the starless night. He sat alone on the balcony, staring out at the cloudy sky and the toy-like ships resting peacefully in the harbour. On a silken scarf by his side was the crystal prism. He had promised himself to never let it out of sight until Fatima was free. The sultan had been poignantly moving in his pleas that she be kept safe. The look on his face had been pitiful, as Aladdin carefully wrapped the quartz and tucked it away. “Be careful, my brother,” the monarch had said at the moment of parting. “Should I not see either of you again, I will surely die.”
Aladdin had forced a confident laugh in answer to that melancholy comment. He had tried to raise the sultan’s spirits by assuring him that he and the princess would soon be back at his side. In return, the monarch had managed a lacklustre smile of his own, outwardly sharing the same belief. Their unspoken feelings, however, were quite different. Even Christóbal, knowing little of the undertaking, sensed they were about to commence upon a journey like none before, traveling to a place lost in time, whose very existence seemed doubtful. The Spaniard, as always, was relying on fortune and lady luck to see them through. Shaman had spoken cryptically of the strange Passage they must make, and then an encounter with an all but doomed civilisation after concluding a never-ending war. But who — what, might be a better word — was the enemy — in a continent once believed to be a paradise? This and other questions tumbled in Aladdin’s mind. Whatever his answers, they were not much to look forward to.
On the night before setting out, Aladdin used the remaining time for quiet introspection. He had never liked to use the term soldier-of-fortune. It connoted a mercenary, capable of cold-blooded killing. He preferred to be called adventurer; a man waging his own fight for a just cause. Nonetheless, a soldier-of-fortune he was, and his reputation for toughness across Arabia had been earned. Aladdin was not a killer, but he had indeed taken more lives than he cared to remember. Be it in honest self-defence or to protect someone else, the results were the same. Why else had Shaman sought him out? War was his business. A leader of men and sometimes armies, he could be ruthless. In some distant inhospitable land, he and Christóbal were a two-man army with but two thoughts in their minds: to do the job swiftly and successfully, and to remain alive when it was over.
This time, there was a radical difference. The adventurers were being forced, against their wills, to join forces with a man they loathed. And never had the fate of an outsider rested so heavily on his own actions. The weight of this responsibility was no small burden. Like it or not — and he didn’t — his life and the life of the princess were unalterably intertwined — for better or worse.
He glanced down at the prism, fascinated by the smoothly textured surfaces reflecting the distant light. Staring deep inside, he could make out the form of the princess as she slept, her head nestled in her slim hands. She was deep in sleep. Shaman had been true to his word about this much at least, Aladdin mused thankfully. Fatima was in her promised slumber, not to awaken for a full year, when, he prayed, her ordeal would be over. Aladdin stroked one surface of the prism gently, then sighed and gazed back at the quiet sea. Daybreak was approaching. Soon he and the Spaniard would leave the palace, walk down to the harbour, and board the waiting dragon ship of Shaman. He could see its sleek outline now, as it bobbed in the quay. With its double-masted sails furled, and its serpent’s sculptured head affixed to a swanlike prow, it indeed resembled some strange water-traveling demon. It was unlike any ship he had ever seen before.
Cinnabar, he thought. Cinnabar.
Under the direction of a dying man, he would embark on a course toward worlds he’d never dreamed of. Cinnabar. Even now he could hardly accept it as being real. The dragon ship seemed to cast an eerie glow, making its presence singular among all merchant vessels in the harbour. No craftsmen of Arabia had designed it, he was certain, nor shipbuilders of Europe. Its lines and structure seemed a blend of Viking and Carthaginian, with smooth curves and a bulwark that reminded him of the boats of Cathay. But it was a rugged vessel, no doubt about that. Built for long and arduous voyages to — to where? To Cinnabar. To a fabled and unknown land. A land without sun or sky or moon. A land buried for ages deep beneath the deepest sea.
Aladdin shuddered.
Chapter Ten
“Capitán,” came Christóbal’s rumbling voice.
Aladdin turned to find the Spaniard behind him, peering into the cavern’s voluminous recesses with a suspicious scowl across his swarthy features. “I think we have company, capitán.” Christóbal drew his dagger with a single fluid motion, hunkering like a leopard ready to spring. Still groggy, Aladdin crouched in his shadow and pulled out his own gleaming blade, a finely honed dirk designed by himself and forged in the kilns of Damascus.
Some meters ahead, where the ceiling of the cave abruptly sloped downward, they saw something move. The silhouette of a man was crossing a natural rampart, a silent figure that stopped at the edge of the wall and stood rigidly, observing them. His breastplate and tunic indicated he was a soldier. But he wore no helmet, leggings, or sword. In his hands he carried a small leather sheath, containing a blade no larger than a common kitchen knife, a harmless weapon compared to the razor-sharp blad
es of the adventurers. He was small in stature, clean-shaven, slender, and little older than a boy. His shoulder-length yellow hair was pulled back tightly and bound behind his head with a clasp. His eyes were coldly unblinking and as grey as the landscape.
“Who are you?” called Christóbal, planting his feet wide apart.
The youth made no reply.
“I ask again,” growled the Spaniard. He narrowed his eyes and tensed his sinewy muscles, wielding his dagger gently in warning. The young soldier still didn’t respond in words, although he pulled out his own knife and held it close, tip pointing upward. Aladdin blinked as the metal glowed like a tiny torch, illuminating the soldier’s face.
“Are you going to speak or not, eh?” wheezed Christóbal.
“He can’t speak; he’s mute.” Another figure emerged from the shadowy rampart and stood beside the youth.
“Shaman!”
The dying man smiled thinly. “I see you both have rapidly recovered,” he said. “Good. I had feared it would take longer.” He nudged the youth’s elbow and whispered something Aladdin couldn’t hear. The soldier nodded, resheathed the glowing knife, and resumed his stoic posture. “You needn’t fear this one,” Shaman continued, stepping into the open. “I sent him here to watch over you both. Now perhaps you should put away your own blades; we wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression.”
“Why are we being held here?” demanded the Spaniard, reluctant to put down his arms. “We expected better than to wake up and find ourselves prisoners in a cave.”
“Cave?” For a moment Shaman seemed confused; then he smiled broadly. “Ah, I see.” He gestured with his hand. “But this isn’t a cave, my friends, nor are you prisoners. These are the tunnels from the locks...”
“What locks?” said Aladdin with suspicion.
“The locks from the sea. The decompression chambers. Now I really must insist you sheathe your knives. You’ll have plenty of time to use them later.” He held out his hand. “Why not give them to me; I’ll see that they’re kept safely.”
“No man takes away my dagger,” Christóbal growled. “Unless he takes it by force.”
Shaman sighed. “You are making this quite difficult for me — ”
“Not as difficult as for us,” said Aladdin. “Why were we drugged? How long have we been unconscious?”
“You were not drugged, adventurer. Merely given something to make the Passage more comfortable for you. Surface pressures are quite different from those here and it takes a while to adjust.”
“My head feels like it’s been beaten with a club.”
The dying man grinned. “Yes, a swift Passage can do that. Forgive us for the discomforts we have caused, but you see, our pilot-captain was forced to undertake our descent as rapidly as possible.”
“You mean we actually are under the sea?” inquired Christóbal, scratching his hair in wonder.
“We are. Two thousand meters under. Normally the transition would have been far more pleasant, but as I said — ”
“But how can we breathe? Where is the ocean?”
Shaman smiled broadly at the burly Spaniard’s confusion. “All will be explained shortly to your satisfaction. For now, think of this land as resting within a mammoth bubble. But; as I said, you’ll learn more later. Now, if you think you’re ready, we’d better resume our journey. Whitetime is nearly over and I’m afraid it’s becoming increasingly hazardous to travel during darkout.”
“Whitetime? Darkout?” mimicked Aladdin, looking as blank and puzzled as his companion.
“Forgive me again,” said Shaman. “Sometimes I forget that my guests are strangers to our ways. Cinnabar is currently in a greater state of emergency, it seems, than when I departed for the surface. Much is changing, and I hope our arrival has not come too late. Ah, I see I’m only adding to your confusion. Soon you’ll both understand everything. A debriefing has already been scheduled.”
Aladdin stared once more at the grey and depressingly barren landscape of lifeless hills. The grim overhead, which passed as an underworld sky, hung oppressively. “Your world isn’t exactly the picture of paradise I expected to find,” he muttered. “In fact, it looks more like a grave.”
Shaman laughed. “This isn’t my world, adventurer. Merely a no man’s land between the Two Plates of Cinnabar and its Outland. My world, as you call it, is a small distance away.” His eyes drifted across the dying landscape and he frowned. “Unfortunately our ship was diverted and forced to anchor at these locks. As it was, we barely reached the safety of Freezone without being tracked.” Then his smile returned. “But when we do reach Cinnabar, I promise, you won’t be disappointed. Your gear is already unloaded and waiting. Now, please, it would be a great help if you gave me your weapons.”
Christóbal warily shook his head. “I think it would be better if I kept my blade myself. I feel naked without it.”
“It would be better if I didn’t have to force you.” Shaman glanced over at the expressionless soldier who waited in the shadows.
“It would take a cohort of your puny boy-soldiers to wrest my dagger away,” growled the Spaniard.
“I’d be careful of my bragging,” said the dying man, whereupon he inclined his head toward the mute youth who drew his glowing blade from its metallic sheath. Again it burned brightly, sending back the shadows.
“The weapon he is holding is called a humming knife,” Shaman told his guests matter-of-factly. “A simple but useful device. Its properties are such that upon contact with air it immediately turns white hot.” He nodded his head and the soldier demonstrated, as the tip of the point glanced off the rock. Tiny flames jumped and hissed. Shaman continued, “Compared to surface blades its cutting edge is dull; however, its intent is not to cut. When thrown, a humming knife seeks the heat of its victim. It punctures armour and lodges in flesh, instantly burning body organs. The agony is brief but excruciating, I assure you. In seconds, the victim’s insides roast. One minute later, all that’s left is burned meat and charred bone; a minute later, ashes. Would you like another demonstration?”
Aladdin and Christóbal looked at each other in horror. The knife’s abilities went far beyond anything they had ever witnessed.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Aladdin dryly. “We get the point.”
“I knew you would.” Another inclination of his head, and the mute soldier slid his humming knife back into its sheath. Shadows returned as the glaring light disappeared. “Come then, we’ve wasted enough time.”
Aladdin gave Shaman his weapon; Christóbal reluctantly did the same.
“What now?” asked Aladdin.
“We journey home. Best we move before darkout overtakes us completely.”
It was then that Aladdin realised the overhead had become even gloomier than when first he’d looked upon the desolate landscape. Although there were no actual days or nights in the subterranean continent, there did seem to be alternating periods of light and dark. Whitetime was now waning, as darkout rapidly approached.
“How far do we have to travel?” he asked.
Shaman smiled cryptically. “Not far, not far. But, I urge you, stay close to me and our escort. Cinnabar would not wish to lose its prized guests on their first day after Passage.”
Chapter Eleven
Darkout had overtaken the range of strange hills called the Outland. As they travelled, on stunted ponies which closely resembled African zebras, Aladdin disciplined himself to the eerie stillness. The overhead was muddy brown, not a true night, and oppressively gloomy. The surrounding mounds of brittle rock and grey earth were bathed in dull shadows.
Shaman rode in the lead, flanked by two mute soldiers of the locks, who also carried no weapons except for sheathed humming knives strapped to their waists. On their heels came Christóbal, struggling uncomfortably in the small saddle. So big compared to the slight frail people of the subterranean world, the oversized Spaniard seemed grossly disproportionate to the stunted pony beneath him. Al
addin rode next in line and, bringing up the rear, another soldier escort, not mute but a silent fellow. He sat rigid in his saddle, tight-lipped, with a stony countenance. The set of his jaw and the intensity of his beardless face assured the adventurer that this man was a well-seasoned man of war.
For a long period they rode in one direction, but which one Aladdin had no way of knowing without stars or sun or moon to guide him. East, south, north, and west all seemed the same in the land between the Two Plates. Then, Shaman and the mutes changed direction, angling away from the central valleys and across a series of flat foothills. In the dim light of darkout he couldn’t see very far around him, but the quickening pace of the striped ponies assured him they must be close to their destination. They scrambled up and down the twisting, involuted slopes. His head was throbbing with the aftereffects of Passage, and now the ordeal of this rugged ride was making his back ache and his thighs cramp. He was uncomfortably warm, panting and perspiring, wishing for some sign that the journey would end.
Shaman and the mutes halted abruptly; the dying man wheeled his pony around and signalled for those behind to stop. Saddle-sore and in a foul mood, Christóbal cursed under his breath when Shaman gestured for them to dismount. “By the thorny crown of the Saviour, why are we stopping in this forsaken place?”
“Be quiet and do as I say!” Shaman commanded.
The mutes were the first to dismount; soundlessly they gathered the ponies and found hiding places in the shadow at the bottom of the nearest slope. Shaman beckoned for Aladdin and Christóbal to join them. The Spaniard, scratching his voluminous behind, ambled along. “Come on!” called the dying man. “Quickly!”
Crouching, they huddled silently in a knot. The veteran soldier crawled up the slope to peer over the rise. A tiny avalanche of loose pebbles and dirt tumbled down after him.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 87
