“What’s going on?” Aladdin whispered.
Shaman looked up at the muddy overhead. “Sky hunters,” he replied. Then he pointed into the distance. “Look.”
Aladdin tightened his gaze and scoured the darkness. He could see only dulled muddy streaks, which resembled nocturnal clouds. Then a trio of distant specks appeared, tiny pinpricks of glowing light. Aladdin blinked; the specks were soaring toward them. Over the hills they roared, three eagle-like predators. The colour of the strange birds was silvery black, and in the gloom of darktime they shone like beacons. They had hooked upper bills, much like surface predators, and enormous curved talons, razor-sharp, longer than a man’s fingers, and powerful enough to subdue large prey. The sky hunters made no sound; they glided in unison in a smooth pattern far above, passing directly over the huddled group, and then disappeared over the hills.
Christóbal crossed himself. “By the living saints, what are those things?”
The appearance of the underworld birds — if birds they were — was an unsettling sight for the two strangers to Cinnabar. The sight of predators down here between the Two Plates was disconcerting. Surely they couldn’t have been flying in this lifeless Outland in search of food.
Aladdin started to stand, but Shaman’s hand reached out and grabbed him. The specks of glowing light appeared again. The sky hunters were coming back — fast — flying lower than before, scouring the terrain. Aladdin crouched defensively, wishing he had his knife.
Silvery wings flapped, and eyes glowed, unblinking. They were looking for something, all right, but what, he didn’t know.
The predators paused for an instant directly overhead. Aladdin’s heart skipped a beat. Then they flapped their great wings and surged upward into the streaking clouds in a new pattern of flight. They zeroed in on a band of flat-topped hills to Aladdin’s left and circled. Aladdin’s palms were sweating. They scanned the ruts and valleys methodically, diving, soaring, then diving again, one at a time, feathers glinting in the gloomy light; a grim and fearsome sight. Then they abruptly spiralled upward again, in the direction from which they first appeared, becoming no more than three specks of light, then a single glow, then disappearing entirely.
With relief written across their young faces, the mutes sheathed their humming knives as they came out of hiding. Shaman and the dour soldier who had been riding behind Aladdin exchanged a short, worried look. The mutes stroked the zebra-like manes of their ponies, soothing them. The animals were shaking with fear.
Aladdin mounted his own pony and gazed once more up into the sky. Sky hunters, Shaman had dubbed them, and sky hunters they were. These birds were like no others he’d ever encountered. Not merely hunters, they were killer birds. A glance at Shaman’s eyes assured him that what he was thinking was true. The sky hunters were searching for only one sort of prey — and they were that prey.
Chapter Twelve
The stunted ponies stumbled over brittle rock as they climbed up from the rocky flats toward the cliffs. They traversed the lichen-covered scrub, entering into a pale white mist, which seemed to rise from unseen bogs. Aladdin and Christóbal regarded each other with puzzled glances, wondering where they would find themselves once they had scaled the cliffs. Hours had passed since they had last paused, and so far, there was no sign of life or civilisation, only the oppressive monotony of the barren Outland. Here, at the cliffs, they had encountered the first alteration in landscape, and like riders approaching the edge of the world itself, they greeted the unfamiliar shift in terrain with a mixture of fear and relief.
The mist curled around them, obstructing their vision. Shaman took the lead, riding along a well-travelled path which took them at length through the misty vapour to the top of the cliffs. Aladdin tightened his eyes to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the mist. He could see nothing but the flapping cloaks of the mutes in front. Then suddenly the fog began to dissipate, and his eyes watered from the sting of a rich and almost blinding golden light that poured down from above. He rubbed his eyes, shying away from it.
“Welcome at last, my friends,” Shaman said. He dismounted along the precipice of the chalky cliff, swelled his chest, and with exhilaration, inhaled the clean air. “Welcome at last to Cinnabar.”
Aladdin reopened his eyes. The mist was gone. With the Spaniard at his side, he stared out into the new world they had travelled so far to reach. The view before them was incredible. A whole new world of light and colour that overwhelmed him totally and deepened his sense of his own insignificance.
Before him lay the majestic city of Cinnabar. For an instant his mind was unable to cope with it all. He would have questioned his sanity had it not been for Christóbal’s similar reaction. The Spaniard stood in awe, his mouth open in wonder. He, too, was stunned.
Awash in golden light, the city had a dreamlike, heavenly quality. Slender towers and obelisks of purple rose up against a wondrous magenta sky.
“By the holy gate of Saint Peter,” Christóbal muttered aloud as he dismounted. “Am I asleep or is this real?”
“Quite real, I assure you,” rejoined Shaman, with the joy of a pilgrim returning home at last. “For you, Cinnabar is a lost and mysterious world,” he added, “but to me, it is home.”
The incredibly massive walls and spiralling steeples glistened beneath the magenta sky. Forests of rich green hills and cultivated fields surrounded the plateau city like veritable gardens of Eden. The towering edifices that curved upward were covered in misty rose and yellow hues. As if in a trance, Aladdin and Christóbal marvelled at this Arcadian wonderland. The storytellers and ballad-singers had not exaggerated the magnificence of this fabled world — Cinnabar — if anything, they had underestimated it.
“Come, friends,” said Shaman, nudging them gently away from the cliff’s precipice. “There will be plenty of time to see everything later. My home shall be your home, my city at your disposal. But we still have a ways to go before we reach the Pavilion, and your arrival is eagerly expected. I must ask that you hold your many questions for those who are better able to answer them than I.”
*
Aladdin’s tired eyes roamed the entrance hall of what Shaman had referred to only as the Pavilion. So enormous was the Pavilion that the great palace of Basra in its entirety could fit into this entrance hall. His glance passed from the walls of pale-blue marble, to the tremendous columns, which extended upward to vaulted ceilings, so lofty that the pillars’ upper reaches were all but lost to view in rosy shadow. Great statues of heroic figures hovered everywhere, so lifelike he almost expected them to move. Unsmiling figures of men, robed or armour-clad stared down at him grimly. One figure unlike all the rest stood alone at the far end. The sculpture of a woman, it seemed to be smiling. The statue’s thin mouth was tight-lipped and narrow, yet Aladdin felt a strange tingle of well-being, as though she exuded an inner tranquillity. In her right hand she held a glowing lamp, shaped much like the deadly humming knife. Its brightness was so strong that even now, in whitetime, it was almost painful to look upon — as if he were looking at the sun itself.
Aladdin was staring at the statue, transfixed, as Shaman turned and nodded knowingly. “She is our strength,” he said quietly. “The source of our will and energy.”
“She is very beautiful,” Aladdin said in response, his eyes glued to the statue’s stare.
“Yes. Very beautiful. Even more so in life, they say.”
“She was alive? She’s not a deity?”
“She was once very much alive, my friend. And in our hearts, she still is.”
Again Aladdin gazed at the statue’s face, noting the strength of her jaw, the resoluteness in her eyes, the warmth. “What was her name?” he asked.
“Shara,” Shaman replied with reverence.
“Shara,” Aladdin repeated. “When did she live?”
“During the first days of struggle. A long, long time ago, Aladdin. A time before your world had known its first civilisation.” Then Shaman touched his shoulder, sa
ying, “We have all been touched by her in one way or another — ”
Aladdin nodded absently, then looked at Christóbal. It was apparent that the burly Spaniard had not been enthralled by Shara’s captivating beauty the way he had. In fact, he seemed puzzled by Aladdin’s involvement.
“Come,” said Shaman. “We are expected.”
The echo of their footsteps was the only sound as they walked down an endless hall. They passed many more statues, but none held any interest for Aladdin. Somehow he found himself unable to erase the image of Shara from his mind.
Christóbal looked about, uneasily. He thought it odd that the Pavilion seemed to be deserted. They passed through a double-arched bronze doorway and walked across a mosaic floor. Here the walls were decorated with carved woodwork, which resembled the palaces of Moorish kingdoms. When they reached the gleaming steps of a wide stairway, a perfumed fragrance suddenly filled the air. At the top of the landing, Aladdin heard soft, ethereal bells which tinkled all around them and only enhanced his feeling of walking through a dream.
Shaman walked stiffly a few paces in front of his guests, but his gait was far more buoyant than Aladdin had ever seen.
Three grey-eyed girls clad in pastel yellow tunics appeared from the columns of white marble; they lowered their heads and made respectful bows before Shaman. “Welcome home, my lord,” said the tallest of the trio. She was a lithe woman, narrow-faced and serious. Her yellow hair was braided and fell down over her breasts; a small jewel-studded diadem crowned the top of her head.
“Thank you.”
“And welcome to our guests,” she added quickly, glancing briefly at Aladdin and the bear-sized figure behind him. Her expressive eyes drifted back to Shaman. “You are expected in the Privy Council.” She bowed again, turned, and led the way. Christóbal’s grinning eyes followed her shapely form. “This is more like what I’d hoped we’d find,” he whispered to Aladdin on the sly.
The next hall they passed glowed with an almost supernatural splendour, as washes of magenta light spilled in through recessed lattice windows. Aladdin was absorbed in the magnificence of everything around him, which heightened his sense of having somehow stepped into a dream.
A great open door stood before them. The grey-eyed girls moved aside and bowed. When Aladdin crossed the threshold he found himself in a spacious room where one window covered an entire wall. The view was a breath-taking panorama of underworld sky and slender outlines of the rising towers of the city. In white tunic and gently fluttering velvet cape, a solitary figure rose from a marble bench, smiling broadly at the appearance of Shaman. One slender hand rested proudly on his hip; the other was outstretched in greeting. “My friend,” he said in a lisping voice, “it is good to have you home. You have been missed.”
Shaman bent forward in a bow, making a graceful gesture of greeting with his hands. “It is good to come home after all these months,” he replied. “To be home among those I love.”
The man called Damian embraced him in brotherly fashion, then stepped back and looked at his friend. Concern filled his eyes. “The journey has taken its toll,” he remarked.
Shaman shrugged off the reference to his failing health. “The Passage is always difficult. But this time it has been worth the effort. I have succeeded, Damian.” He smiled happily, pretending not to feel his pain.
Damian looked over at the two strangers. Like everyone else they had seen so far in Cinnabar, he was slight of build and, in the eyes of his visitors, almost frail. Clipped yellow hair crowned his head; a few curls spilled across his forehead. His eyes were winter-sea grey, his complexion pale. His features were sharply chiselled, much like Shaman’s, but clean shaven and smooth. The lines of his jaw were strong, his cheekbones high. As to his age, Aladdin couldn’t tell, but the tired eyes and knitted brows assured him that Damian was far older than he, at first glance, appeared to be. He stood with a confident, almost regal air; stoic, contemplative, steady as a rock. Aladdin could easily imagine his likeness taking its place one day among the plethora of dour statues in the Pavilion.
“Greetings, travellers,” Damian said to his foreign guests. “I — we — are pleased that you have come. Most pleased.” He focused on the smaller of his guests. “So you are the one whom Shaman sought, the one called Aladdin.”
“I am,” answered the adventurer with a slight inclination of his head.
Damian smiled. “Good. During your stay among us, both you and your companion shall have complete freedom to come and go as you will in the city, to be among us, and to learn our ways. Of course, your sojourns must be confined to whitetime, but I suppose you are familiar enough with that by now.” He sighed, and threw up his hands. “But you must be tired. Passage can be a difficult and exhausting ordeal for the best of surface men. Quarters have already been prepared and I know you will want to rest before becoming familiar with our world.”
“My only question at the moment,” said Aladdin, “is to learn why Christóbal and I have been forced against our will to come here.”
“Forced against your will?” Damian shot a puzzled glance at Shaman. “What does he mean, counsel?”
“My efforts to procure their service were more difficult than I anticipated, my lord. One must use fire to counter fire. Urgency compelled me to employ methods of deceit.”
“Blackmail is a better word,” growled the Spaniard.
Damian was clearly taken aback. His cold eyes smouldered as he regarded his counsel. He opened his mouth to speak when, from behind, another voice could be heard. “Temper your judgment, lord; trickery has been our greatest ally.”
Aladdin’s eyes opened wide as a dwarf-sized jester appeared from behind the columns and, bracing himself on his hands, stubby legs in the air, cartwheeled and somersaulted to the centre of the chamber. He pranced like a circus clown, then leaped into the air and landed on his feet before Damian, panting, his childlike face aglow with humour and merriment. His round eyes and fat lips were exaggerated by makeup. Dressed in stockings and a loose-fitting tunic striped in garish colour, he seemed the buffoon indeed. A pathetic figure, he was more deformed than Aladdin had realised at first.
“Shaman did what Shaman does,” the dwarf added, a foolish grin splitting his face. “And who but Shaman can do it better?”
Aladdin knew that in the courts of Araby and the East midgets and dwarves were often employed to entertain the court. Their comic presence was a welcome relief from the sombre matters of state. But, the appearance of such a clown seemed somehow out of place, a curious oddity, in such a land of dreams as Cinnabar.
“Then you see no affront, Jester?” asked Damian.
Light spilling from the wall window illuminated the ruddy face. The deformed dwarf danced about on his toes, hopped a few paces, and did a double turnabout in the air before landing catlike back on his feet. “An affront to whom, lord?” he countered laughingly, sticking pudgy fingers into the air. “I see the men our envoy has brought; there can be no wrong when time is short.” He giggled as he completed his little rhyme, then proceeded to dance about once more. Undistracted, Damian turned again to Shaman. “The message you sent from the locks indicated nothing of this matter,” he said.
Shaman frowned. “I thought it better to wait until our arrival before explanations were given.” He drew a deep breath and looked at Damian evenly. “The jester is right; I had precious little time to waste. And from the looks of things, it is fortunate I returned as quickly as I did.”
A dark shadow crossed Damian’s features. This Chancellor of the Privy Council heaved a sighed and folded his arms. “You are very right,” he answered lowly. “Amphibs have broken through the Outer Circle.”
“I surmised as much,” Shaman said, as Aladdin looked on, perplexed. “Our Passage was rough. The pilot-captain reached the far locks beyond the Two Plates with the greatest of haste.”
“Necessary haste, counsel. The war goes badly.”
“But perhaps now there shall be an improvement.”
Damian turned, and Aladdin’s eyes fell upon another entry into the conversation. A bulky figure, dressed in a shiny black tunic, his chest swollen with ribbons and badges, strode in — by far the tallest man Aladdin had seen in the underworld — a man whose swagger bore a decidedly military air. His curly yellow hair was peppered with grey, and his sagging jowls did not detract from the strong lines of his sombre face. Hawk-nosed, he peered at the guests through deep-set, icy grey eyes.
“We have been waiting for you, Legion Commander,” Damian said.
“Priority matters at Supreme Command detained me,” Rufio replied in a clipped monotone. “A number of operational documents demanded — er — ” he glanced over at the strangers, “my immediate attention.”
“You may speak freely in front of our guests,” the lord of the Privy Council told him.
“A tunnel lock was breached.” He grimaced. “It was all we could do to regain it by whitetime.”
The jester walked on his hands in front of the soldier, deliberately raising his ire. The Legion Commander looked on with disdain. Like military men everywhere, he seemed to loathe politics and politicians. His required presence in the Pavilion at such a critical moment was distasteful enough without having to find himself subjected to the buffoonery of a deformed fool.
“Still,” said Damian, ignoring the contempt which the commander displayed toward the prancing dwarf, “you have arrived in good time. Shaman has not let us down, Rufio. He has brought back the men we need to help us.”
With a masked sneer, the bold veteran looked beyond the surface-world visitors. He was not even impressed by Christóbal’s massive bulk. “An army is what I need,” he growled. “A third legion to stem the tide and hold our defences. Of what use are two men to me?”
Shaman looked coldly at Rufio. Unknown to Aladdin, these two had been antagonists for many, many years. “By their skilful and unparalleled use of surface tactics,” Shaman answered coolly. “I tell you that soldiers-of-fortune such as these are capable of working miracles with our limited forces. I have studied and witnessed for myself how surface men fight. They are intrepid and daring, employing strategies never seen in Cinnabar. This man Aladdin and his companion are the best; with their guidance and expertise, we will surely turn impending defeat into victory.”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 88
