Star Axe

by Duncan McGeary

  Yet, finally even Captain Jonla began to slow his pace noticeably. Several times Jonla was forced to stop and survey the trail. Balor was sent forward once again to explore. Late one afternoon, Captain Jonla called Kenlahar to him. “This is as far as I’ve ever come,” he said. “We are entering the lands of the Swamp People now. I do not know how they will receive us. It is my hope that they will ignore our trespass. Still, it will be much rougher going from now on.

  “We will keep up,” Kenlahar said proudly, defiantly.

  Captain Jonla turned and looked him over carefully before locking gazes with him. “Yes, I think maybe you will. I have been watching you, and you have done better than I expected. And now I will apologize and explain my hurry. We have been traveling steadily northward and this winter will bring a cold such as you have never felt. I hope to spare us the worst of it by reaching Swamp’s End before the first snows.” He started to walk away, but then hesitated. He turned for one last word. “It is time that you helped stand guard.”

  Kenlahar’s duty turned out to be simply staying awake at the edge of the camp, beside their fire, something that was not very difficult for him to do. The other sentries were obviously expected to be the real shields. Still, he was happy that Captain Jonla at last trusted him enough to include him in the company.

  He had not long been on watch when he heard a new sound between the croaking and squeaking that everyone else in the patrol seemed to take for granted. At first he wasn’t sure that this new din was not just another strange animal, one he had not heard yet. It would have to be a very strange creature, he thought, to let off such a booming roaring sound!

  He was saved from having to make more of a judgment when—or so it seemed in the dim light—Balor jumped vertically from his prone position beside the fire. The warrior just as abruptly threw himself back down again, this time with Kenlahar crushed beneath him. The healer cried out in alarm, but was certain that Balor could not hear his shout through the racket. At least Balor did nothing to answer him, but instead seemed intent on attempting the impossible task of pulling on his armor without once letting go of his grip on his sword.

  Captain Jonla strode through the camp, yelling commands that no one could hear. But by motioning he was able to create some order among the soldiers. Then, just as unexpectedly as it had started, the roaring ceased. Captain Jonla’s voice could now be clearly heard. “In a circle!” he was shouting. “No—stay away from the fires, you fools! Notch your arrows.”

  Then there was a surprising silence. Even the persistent droning of the animals and insects had stopped. Kenlahar and Sanra had been put in the middle of the circle of men. He fingered the blade of Alcress, realizing foolishly that it still did not have a handle, and wondering of what possible use it would be if he were captured. It was the last time he would have a weapon that was useless! he vowed. Away from the fire they began to get cold, but they did not dare move. The men crouched without stirring, facing outward into a long, dark night.

  As light slowly crept over the horizon, Kenlahar saw a strange sight. Surrounding the protective circle of men was a circle of arrows, with one for each man, driven into the soft ground only inches away from their feet. Still, the men of Lahar crouched without moving. Nothing stirred in the swamp and little by little the Tream resumed its former noisy existence. But just as Kenlahar began to relax in the warm light of morning, the roaring started again.

  Out of the low reeds stepped a young girl. She was small and dark, with long black braids that fell to her shoulders. A ragged, splotched brown dress reached her knees. She wore nothing on her feet. When one of the men in front of Kenlahar drew back an arrow threateningly, he was immediately speared by a score of arrows that seemed to come from nowhere. “Do not move!” Captain Jonla shouted urgently.

  As the swampgirl approached Kenlahar saw that, despite her size, she was at least as old as he and, despite the heavy layer of dirt on her face, she was also very pretty. When she stopped in front of the circle of men, the roaring ceased. She spoke with a strange, slurred accent. “Why have you invaded our lands?”

  Captain Jonla stepped forward with his arms stretched harmlessly in front of him. “Peace to you, sister. We wish the Swamp People no harm.”

  The girl simply repeated her question. “Why have you invaded our lands?”

  “We wish to reach Swamp’s End.” Captain Jonla waved his arms to the north. “Beyond the swamp…” The swampgirl frowned briefly, “Swamp’s End?” Then she nodded and said, “Follow me.” As she turned to lead the way, Captain Jonla ordered his men to follow her in single file. Balor took up the point again, just behind the girl, and tried to talk with her. Kenlahar and Sanra, with their shadow, the Lashitu, followed him. The rest of the company and Captain Jonla brought up the rear.

  Kenlahar could not see the other Swamp People at first, but when he looked back he saw two small dark men stripping the dead soldier. As they neared a large and comparatively dry wooded island, Kenlahar saw other men on either side of them, stepping in and out of the shadows of the swamp. The loud booming sounded again and Kenlahar noticed one of the swampmen blowing into a large shell. The cries of children and the barking of dogs answered it. Naked children came out of the trees and danced around the troop as it wound its ways into the village. Dogs snapped at their heels.

  They abruptly entered a large clearing in the center of the island. Small mud huts dotted the clearing, and women were sitting in the entrances of the huts cleaning out the large shells that decorated all the buildings. Old men sat talking around a large bonfire in the middle of the clearing. At the other end of the village, a party of men entered carrying baskets of shells on their back.

  All talking and working ceased when the troop approached the village. They were marched up to the largest hut and stopped at its low entrance. Kenlahar thought that it must look incongruous to see the tall blond warriors of Lahar helpless and surrounded by their grimy escort of swampmen. No wonder the people of the House of Lahar had always viewed him suspiciously! He looked more appropriate among the dark swampmen than he did among his own kind. The villagers surrounding them were silent, the parents looking dirty and grim, and the children wide eyed.

  The swampgirl ducked into the doorway and reappeared a second later with a large man, wearing a magnificent white beard that reached his chest. Under the beard was a large paunch and a voice that boomed, “They call me the Cormatine.”

  Jonla stepped forward. “I am Captain Jonla and these are free men of the House of Labor. Why have you stopped us? We mean you no harm. We wish only to reach Swamp’s End.”

  The voice of the man was loud and powerful, seemingly without effort. “We know who you are, Captain Jonla. We have seen you many times as you have wandered our lands. We did not stop you, for you did no harm. But now you have entered the Tream—with a large party of armed men—on the Day of the Cormat.

  This cannot be allowed.” The Cormatine’s voice echoed in the clearing.

  One of the swampmen cried out, “The Tryst!” and others took up the cry in the clearing. The Cormatine allowed the shouts to go on for some time, and then raised his arms in silence. “The People of the Cormat have demanded the Tryst. One of you must submit. If he lives you will all go free. If he fails you—you will all be sacrificed to the Cormat.”

  The leader of the swampmen let his eyes wander over the men of the House of Lahar. Kenlahar felt the eyes pass over him once and then come back to him. He wondered if he imagined the speculative look the Cormatine gave him.

  “Who will dare the Tryst?” Kenlahar was now sure that the Cormatine was looking at him alone, and he felt a compulsion to make himself known. Balor and Kenlahar stepped forward at the same moment. “Get back, Kenlahar!” his friend said harshly.

  The Cormatine smiled and motioned toward Kenlahar. Two of the swampmen took his arms and led him away from the troop. Behind him, he could hear the protests of Balor, which were cut off abruptly as Kenlahar was pushed into the hut and
the door slammed behind him.

  “Take me!” Balor demanded. “Let me be the one.” When the Cormatine continued to ignore him, he broke away from his guards and lunged for the swamp leader.

  The Cormatine motioned again. Balor was stopped far from his goal, and dragged to another of the huts on the opposite side of the village. The door slammed shut behind him as well, and he heard and saw no more.

  CHAPTER VII

  There were no windows in his prison, and it was dark, except for the few shafts of light through the cracks of the door. Kenlahar did not know how long he spent in the darkness of his prison. But the time passed slowly, and he had enough time to fully regret his hasty decision. Balor or Jonla would have been more qualified to take any test, he thought ruefully.

  When the door finally opened, the new day’s light blinded him. The Cormatine stepped into the hovel, closing the door behind him, and carrying a small torch that he set in the wall. In his other hand was one of the large snail shells, which he pushed towards Kenlahar. “Drink this,” he commanded.

  “What is it?”

  “It is the blood of the Cormat. Drink it!”

  Kenlahar put the shell to his lips and tasted a small amount. It was bitter, and had a strong fishy flavor, but it was not unpleasant. He drank the rest of it slowly. Is this the Tryst? he wondered. He sat on the floor and waited for something to happen. His eyes fastened on the torch and he watched the flames dance. The flames slowed down so that it seemed he could watch each flame as it reached its peak and then settle again.

  Then his mind exploded. From far off he heard the Cormatine’s voice. Without thinking, his head turned and he stared into pale eyes. He felt himself sinking into them, their life attracting his emptiness as a piece of wood is sucked under by an undertow. The descent was stopped by a loud voice. “Kenlahar!” The ceiling was blurring through watering eyes. It was exertion to blink. The eyes slipped slowly over the surface of the ceiling, unable to stay in one place without effort.

  The pestering voice paused seductively, and Kenlahar felt the first faint urge to answer. The loud voice continued on in a conversational level. Kenlahar felt himself drawn to it. “Kenlahar!” He found himself answering and immediately felt betrayed. He had not intended to talk. The sound of his name had jerked him around, and before he knew it he wanted to answer more than he’ had ever wanted anything. He felt euphoric.

  “Kenlahar…you will answer each question truthfully and completely. You cannot lie to me. I can make you do or say anything—and make you forget everything afterward. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Kenlahar felt happy to forget.

  “Now…what do you know of the Nameless Ones—the Raggorak?”

  Kenlahar began to gladly tell all he knew, but he was cut off.

  “That is enough. You do not know much and yet too much.” The Cormatine paused. “Do you believe they really exist?”

  “I was not sure.” Kenlahar laughed. “Now I am. You are one. The Healer Coron was one!”

  “You are very clever, Kenlahar. You got that with amazingly few clues. That’s good. But you will forget this. Now for the most important question…what would you do to the Raggorak?”

  Kenlahar felt a cloud on his delirious happiness. “I would destroy them,” he answered.

  The Cormatine seemed taken aback. “Why?”

  “Because I do not wish for my people to be controlled when they are not aware of it. I will not allow you do to me what you did to my father.”

  “I see. If it were up to me you would die right now, even if it did mean a victory for Toraq. Nevertheless, you did pass the Tryst, and the Star Axe has decided. I will wait.”

  Kenlahar’s awareness had splintered and with one part of his mind he continued to answer the Cormatine’s questions; another part of him bore down on a sense of wrongness. He concentrated on his feeling of evil, slowly eliminating everything from his awareness but the cause of his discomfort. At the same time, he continued to mindlessly answer the Cormatine’s insistent questions.

  He found and identified the evil, and his awareness rejoined to find himself saying many things of danger to the Companions—while being unable to tell the swamp leader of the danger to his own people. His muscles would not respond to his urgings and the Cormatine would not ask the one question that would save them. At last, the Cormatine seemed satisfied. He rose and called for a guard to open the door. “Now, you will sleep, Kenlahar. You will forget all that we have talked about today.”

  It was dark in Balor’s prison and he felt the door again, but it was still locked tight. He was sitting back down on the bare floor when he heard a noise at the back of the hut. A square of not quite blackness opened near the floor and then was blocked off as someone scuffled through. Balor backed into the corner and stayed silent, catching his breath as the intruder walked directly toward him. A hand brushed across his face, and he grabbed at it violently. “Who are you?” he hissed.

  “Quiet!” he heard the intruder whisper, and he recognized the slurred accent of the young swampgirl. “I wish to help you!” She took his hand and started to lead him to the back of the hut. “I can lead you to Swamp’s End.”

  “Wait!” Balor held back. “Why do you do this? What of the others?”

  “I cannot do anything for them!” When Balor still did not move she said, “I do not have time to answer questions. Save yourself!”

  “No! We have to try to set Kenlahar free. He who is to take the Tryst!”

  “It is impossible!” But she hesitated as she saw that he meant what he said. “I will try.” She ducked out of the opening.

  After a few seconds, still suspecting a trap, Balor scrambled after her. Outside, both moons of the Sistern were full and the sky was glittering, full of stars. Balor could see clearly from their light. They crept around the hut until he could see the guards at his door. Beyond, the central village fire still burned and he could see that there was some kind of celebration going on around it. Figures danced in the light of the bonfire, and the sound of singing drifted over to him.

  The swampgirl caught his attention and pointed to the small hut where Kenlahar had been taken, at the edge of the village. He nodded. They ran to the shadows of the next hut, and he breathed a little easier now that they were out of sight of his guards. They worked their way to the small hut, running from building to building.

  As they neared their goal, Balor saw that there was only one guard. He sighed in relief. Apparently they did not fear Kenlahar very much. One guard he could disable, with surprise on his side. He motioned for the girl to wait and then went to the darkness at the edge of the village and groped on the ground until he found a stout piece of wood. He worked his way around the hut and came up behind the guard, inching forward and hefting the club in his hand. He wondered how hard to strike, and then the guard turned his back to him.

  Balor took two steps forward and brought the branch down hard on the guard’s head. The branch broke and the guard slumped, unconscious. Balor dragged the guard to the side while the girl ran up and cut the fastenings of the door. She threw it open.

  The interior was silent and pitch black. Looking questioningly at the swampgirl, Balor cautiously entered, his hand extended blindly. He slowly ventured his right foot along the ground until he stumbled over something. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the deeper darkness, he could distinguish the shape of Kenlahar on the floor.

  “He has taken the blood of the Cormat,” the swampgirl whispered. Her tone grew urgent and insistent. “Hurry, he is drugged!”

  Balor knelt beside his friend and shook him gently, and then with force. Kenlahar woke groggily. He could remember nothing of what had happened during the Tryst.

  “Hurry, we must go!” the swampgirl said again, and pulled Balor to the door.

  “I will not leave without the others,” Kenlahar said, still sweating and shaking from the effects of the drug.

  Balor stood in the doorway, hesitating. The swamp- girl’s insiste
nt tug on his arm stopped suddenly. “I cannot save you now!” she said and disappeared into the darkness.

  Seconds later, guards marched up to the large hut. But they did not even see Balor and Kenlahar in their fury until they were within just a few feet. Then Balor stepped into the light of their torches, showing his hands, and they jumped back in alarm. But when he made no threatening motions they angrily rushed the two men of Lahar.

  The guards, deadly silent, marched the Axe-bearer and Companion up to the ceremonial hut. One pounded on the door. Inside, they expected to find another dank and dark hovel, but instead boisterous voices, somehow deadened by thin reed walls, greeted their entrance. The Cormatine turned from the head of a long woven table and, grinning broadly, raised a tankard in welcome. “So—you have returned to us!” he boomed.

  Dismayed, they let themselves he led the rest of the way into the room. The celebration was nearing its conclusion and the hut was overcrowded with the important members of the swamp village—identifiable by the fact that they had more meat on their bones and were not quite as filthy as the rest. They had been dismissed from notice—apparently they had been satisfied the two would not try to leave without their Companions.

  The Cormatine was spooning out cupfuls of some liquid, and as the aroma reached Kenlahar he suddenly felt that there was something about the fluid he should remember. As the Cormatine neared the end of his ceremonial chant and began to raise the cup to his lips, with the others following his example, Kenlahar remembered. With a cry, he sprang forward and dashed the cup from the Cormatine’s lips.

  In astonishment, the others did not drink from their mugs—except for one man who had evidently had too much of another kind of drink already. The guards had already begun to raise their daggers, outraged by the sacrilege, when the man shrieked and fell from his chair. He saved Kenlahar’s life by losing—horribly—his own.