Star Axe

by Duncan McGeary

  In the end it was not the soldiers who stopped him, but the culvert itself. As he approached the walls, Kenlahar saw that the conduit went underground. He hesitated at the tunnel, but eventually began to carefully descend. The incline grew suddenly sharper, and he struggled to maintain his footing in the sludge. The roof of the sewer left just enough room for his head, but the stench was overwhelming. Finally he reached the bottom, and Kenlahar felt in front of him an iron gate. The gate was evidently designed for men, and the way was securely blocked.

  Angrily kicking the barrier, he felt, to his surprise, the bars give way just a couple of feet from the bottom. The sewage had corroded and weakened the gate long ago!

  Outside he could see the moons of the Sistern in the night skies, and for a while he pressed his nose up against the bars, trying to catch the sweet night air. Then he wrapped his possessions even tighter in his bundle and prepared to dive under the gate. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the flow. He kicked under, making a sloshing sound in the thick murk, and held his eyes tightly shut. Feeling his way with his free hand, he pulled himself under the shards of the gate. He felt his bundle catch on something sharp, and tried desperately to free it. Finally, just as he felt his air giving out, he pulled at it violently—and felt it give. Then he was up, gasping for breath.

  Panic-stricken, Kenlahar searched the tattered remains of his makeshift pack. The Star Axe, the jar of Cormat’s blood, the herbs, were gone—it was all gone! He dived back under, forgetting all his misgivings. His hands scraped the bottom, which was a thick layer of sludge. Inch by inch he felt along the floor, but each time he came up empty.

  Finally, he forced himself to calm down. The current was not strong, and the Star Axe could not have gone far, he thought. He was out of the view of the walls and it was growing steadily darker. But it would not have mattered if he could have been seen, for he realized now that his life was joined to Alcress. He would search until he found it. That judgment soothed him, and he was oddly certain he would find it.

  On the next dive his fingers touched something large in the grit and washings. His hands closed around the circular neck of the jug of Cormat’s blood. Encouraged by this discovery, he allowed himself a brief test, and watched as one of the Sistern disappeared entirely behind the mountains. The Chalk Plains below the White Walls of Kernback stretched out to the tall peaks, which looked near enough to reach in a short walk.

  When he began his search again, the Star Axe seemed to leap into his hands. It had drifted several feet beyond where Kenlahar had first looked, but something seemed to guide him to it. He put its cord around his neck and tucked the sheathed blade next to his chest, where it had lain safely for so long, and vowed to never remove it again until he had discovered its secret.

  He ventured from the base of the walls, tentatively at first, then made a dash across the white powdered plain. He was able to stay out of the sight of the sentries, and kept up a strong pace that first night. But the dried sewage was irritating him, and his eyes watered with what he feared was an infection. He found a tall crop of corn to spend the day in, and gouged a bed in the soft furrows of plowed earth. After some debate with himself, he doled out a few drops of Cormat’s blood for each eye.

  The next night he made steady progress toward the mountains, hindered only by the fences and hedges of the vast estates owned by the city-state’s nobility. The fruits and vegetables he found growing in plentiful variety were almost impossible to eat in their unripe and raw form, but he found enough food to eat to fill his stomach.

  Yet he knew that he could not be satisfied with just surviving or escaping discovery. His search for the key to the Star Axe seemed to him no nearer resolution when he had left the House of Lahar. His frustration grew the farther he ran from the city of Kernback—for he was somehow sure that the answer lay somewhere behind its White Walls. Somewhere in its ancient libraries could be found a clue to the power of Alcress.

  Early the next morning he reached what he recognized to be the well-tended estates of Herald’s Manor. The mountains loomed over the land, but Kenlahar knew he would not reach their safety that night. He looked for a place to hide for the day.

  His body felt sore and filthy and his eyes were taken by the sight of the clear, clean stream that ran through the estate. Nearby, the giant manor house loomed. Taking a chance, he plunged, clothes and all, into the crisp flow. Kenlahar did not see the men on the banks of the stream.

  An arrow pierced his shoulder, paralyzing his right arm. He struggled to stay afloat, holding back a scream of pain. A voice drifted over towards him lazily, “What are you shooting at?”

  “I don’t know.” This voice was edgy and suspicious. “I’m sure I saw something swimming in the creek.” Kenlahar was trying to keep his efforts to stay afloat quiet.

  “Come off playing Queen’s Guard, then,” the lazy, drunken voice said. “What would a poacher be doing in the creek? I still have a little wine left, so drink up.”

  “But I really saw something this time…”

  The voices drifted away and Kenlahar crawled onto the bank, painfully pulling himself to the shelter of a toolshed.

  The morning of the next day passed while he slept, and it was not until the next afternoon he woke—to the shouts of the manor’s workers. They had stumbled on his trail of blood and one of them had remembered the shooting of the night before. They were fast approaching his hiding place. Already feverish from the open wound, and the infections caused by the sewage, Kenlahar ran blindly in the direction of the hills. Long after the farmers had quit their search, he ran.

  Panic and fear drove him on and on, sure that pursuit was only steps behind him. Instinct and Karrack’s terse words sent him into the mountains. It was not until he reached the first of the foothills and looked across the impossible distance to the next one that his adrenalin charged energy finally gave out.

  CHAPTER XIII

  The captured warship, majestic and imposing in the featureless swamp, sailed up the narrowing River Danjar day after day. Despite his misgivings, Balor felt the grandeur of his craft and the thrill of his adventure. His spirits were as strong as the winds that blew at his back and filled the giant black sails. All that disturbed, him was that he had not yet devised a way to free the hostages once he caught up with the Qreq.

  But he doubted that they would overtake the Qreq before their fleet reached the Warlord’s Haven. The crew he had been given handled the unfamiliar craft clumsily, and there was not enough men to manage the huge sails. He settled for having only a fraction of the sails up. Besides that, he knew that the Qreq would be using their banks of oars when the wind died, but the men of the House of Lahar found rowing with the massive oars a hopeless task.

  Balor explored the interior of the huge ship. The Qreq must have been used to even smaller spaces than the men of Lahar. Even the small crew found it difficult to get used to the narrow hatches, the low roofs. Most took to sleeping on deck, rather than face the little cubicles the Qreq had slept in. But Balor found the interior of the ship a fascinating glimpse of life the Qreq warriors must lead. They lived like insects, he thought, burrowing in warrens below the decks or below the ground.

  The jagged, rain-washed gulleys and mounds of muddy silt that characterized and contoured the Tream began to flatten out. The pale swamp reeds, and scraggly fen-trees—all that grew in the Tream—were being supplanted by lush, thick growth. Balor soon saw that the terrain would shift. Rain had ceased to pound down on them, and eventually stopped falling altogether. It left the men of Lahar with an ironic and uneasy sense of loss. Yet moisture still seemed to hang in the air, shimmering visibly in the hot midday sun. The Lashitu, obviously unhappy at having been forced to go along, but keeping quiet for once, spent most of his time hanging listlessly over the side of the ship.

  Finally, even the wind died. The air seemed to close in on the intruders and Balor felt that he would suffocate in the dense, damp atmosphere. Suddenly, he looked up and felt a spurt of
dread. The banks were moving forward! He jumped to his feet and saw that the ship was drifting steadily backward. How long had he been lying there? he asked himself. How long had he been content to just try and breathe! The crew seemed to have melted at their posts onto the deck, and lay sprawled and panting for breath.

  Balor forced himself to put some energy into his voice. He shouted urgently at the drowsy men to get back on their feet and man the oars. For a few seconds he thought he would face a mutiny of inaction. Then, one by one, the men slowly took up the oars.

  At first, their efforts to row were hopelessly irregular, and there was a great deal of useless flailing at the water. But eventually the massive warship began to make a desultory progress up the river. Though he felt the effort draining his body of all his strength, Balor would not allow himself to rest, but instead paced vigorously across the quarterdeck. The ship actually seemed to be making some headway! he thought. And now that it was moving forward, it was easier to maintain the movement.

  The state that had enervated the crew and its captain passed. The shock they had felt from the change in the environment—from the barren land they knew as the Tream, to a land of jungles and inhospitable darkness—also faded. The crew was goaded by fear and excitement to keep pulling at the oars. They caught glimpses of strange, wild creatures in the gloomy growth, but the jungle was so thick it was impossible to see anything clearly.

  They were approaching a wide, broad curve in the river, which teased Balor with visions of boundless vistas on the other side, when the Lashitu shouted and pointed to shore. One of the huge, endlessly dripping trees had suddenly burst into flames. The ship was already midstream and fast approaching the curve—then they were past the burning tree and into the bend. Finally, Balor reacted to the sight and commanded the astonished crew to reverse their hard-on advance.

  It seemed to Balor to take an eternity to slow the ship and reverse the momentum. For a while it appeared that they would sweep on around the turn, and at their furthest point upriver Balor saw the masts of many ships pointing over the trees. The crew was finally impelled by the sight to turn the vessel around. There was no need for Balor to order them to row to the fire. They turned toward it the minute the ship was reversed. They discovered a small cove cut into the bank, invisible from the river, concealed by overhanging branches. It could barely accommodate the enormous vessel, and the landing party was able to jump from the ship onto the high banks. Balor immediately sent several men toward the Qreq moorings to scout out the surroundings.

  Kalese was waiting among the shadows of the trees. She stepped forward almost shyly, as Balor let out a loud hallo and swept her up in a hug. “Kalese! Once again you have saved me,” he said.

  “I have been waiting for you,” she said in an annoyed tone, though Balor could see that she was pleased with his greeting.

  Though he was not really surprised by the swampgirl’s speed, Balor asked, “How did you travel so far on foot? I thought I would never see you again!” “The Tream is my home,” she said, shrugging. She looked about her at the thick growth and cloying soil in distaste. “It has been difficult to find a path through this wasteland.”

  Balor laughed, amused by the irony of the swampgirl finding the lush jungle primitive, and relieved at finding her in this wilderness. “Have you caught any glimpses of my people?”

  She frowned, and said in a disappointed tone, “I have not been able to get close. From afar I have counted five prisoners; one girl and four men, but I did not recognize any of them from the distance.”

  “Five?” Balor asked. “Are you certain of your count? At the camp below the Statue of Kings I counted but four.”

  Kalese answered confidently, “Three bound; and the girl and one man walking free.” Balor shook his head, puzzled by the news, but he was not given the time to think about this contradiction. One of the men he had sent out to spy came running back to the ship. “The Qreq are torching a village and leaving. They seem to be fighting something, but we could see no one.”

  The skies over the forest were suddenly filled with black clouds of smoke. From Kalese, Balor learned that the Qreq had landed on the shores of a little village on the riverfront. The swampgirl seemed perplexed as she described empty huts that were no taller than herself. The giant Qreq had kicked the little hovels apart like abandoned toys, she said.

  “Let us investigate this village a little closer,” Balor said. They rowed from the little harbor, and sailed cautiously around the bend in the River Danjar. They entered an inferno. The dwellings were already crumbling into cinders. The men from Lahar, with Balor and Kalese leading, marched into their remains, striving to approach without being seared at the same time by the heat. Balor looked around him in amazement.

  Everything was in miniature! He stooped to pick up a knife, which had a hilt no longer than his little finger. A few of the hovels Kalese had described were left miraculously untouched by the fires. They were crude dwellings, barely distinguishable from the forest growth, sometimes leaning up against the forest itself. The huge leaves that had formed the roofs had been trampled under the feet of the Qreq, and the stick walls had been burst by Qreq flailing. Balor only recognized them as living places because of the scattered implements.

  Yet several Qreq dead lay about the clearing, with small arrows protruding from their bodies. Apparently, the Qreq had turned their anger on a deserted hamlet, for there were no other dead.

  Then suddenly, the mysterious citizens of the village surrounded the party. When the men of Lahar first saw them, they were standing silently and unmoving at the edge of the forest, unnoticed by the expedition. They held tiny bows that Balor knew to be deadly, and carried nets on their shoulders. Their loin- clothes were made from the bark of trees, hammered to a pliable softness. Balor realized with a sudden intuition that to these people, the warriors of the House might appear no different from the Qreq, and he feared that they would suffer punishment for what the Qreq had done.

  “The Mabati!” Kalese gasped in her own language. “You know of these people?” Balor asked.

  “We call them the Mabati—the Little People. There are many legends concerning them among the People of the Cormat. Some of our people even claim to have seen and talked with the Mabati, but I thought them touched or lying. They are the most ancient of all peoples, though not counted as one of the Five Peoples. Yet I have always been told that they are a people, worshippers of the forest.”

  One of the little men, an older man with white flecks in his patchy beard, stepped toward Kalese and barked, “Mabati…” her word for his people, at himself, the others. Kalese nodded, and slowly spoke more words in the language of the Tream. The old man haltingly replied. Kalese turned and translated, “He says that he knows we are not Qreq, but asks us why we have one of their ships.”

  “Tell him that it is a prize of war…that we are enemies of the Qreq and pursue them.”

  The old man seemed excited and pointed to himself. Kalese explained, “His name is Grandfather and he is a friend of the people of the Tream. The Qreq are his foes as well. The destruction of the village means nothing, but the clumsy Qreq have harmed the forest and that cannot be forgiven. Then he says something that sounds like a ritual: ‘We endured in forgotten days, and we will endure ever after.’ “

  Balor turned back to look at the man more closely, but he and all his people had suddenly vanished. Several of his men let out shouts of surprise. “Wait!” Balor yelled, but they were gone. He shuddered and wished at that moment that the Qreq would attempt to carve a path through the forest.

  The men of Lahar were anxious to be back on the ship, nervously peering at the veiled forest. Balor gave the order. The path back through the rain forest was covered by plants that entangled their feet. They waded through inches of falling leaves, as wide as their path. The trees did not sprout branches until far up their tall lengths. Then the growths arched together to block out most of the light. The green moss covered the naked, straight trunks,
entwined by clinging vines. Balor could hear rain above, though none penetrated to them. The falling leaves—their passage among them creating a noisy rustle—told him that there was a strong wind above. But within the forest it was quiet and still. Around the trunk of each tree was a halo of bright green ferns, which opened up like flowers. It fell dark quickly in the rain forest, and there was little time to set up the night’s camp.

  “I just wish the Qreq had to hack and fight their way through this forest by foot, instead of sailing through with such impudence,” Balor said.

  Kalese just nodded her head absently.

  They had no time to waste now, Balor thought, they were fast approaching the Havens and he had not yet found an opening in the Qreq defense. His hope was that the Qreq would make yet another stop before they entered the Haven. For once within the Warlord’s dominion, Balor had little faith that he could produce a rescue. He thought of and then rejected a hundred plans. Each scheme seemed wilder than the other, as his mind sought to come up with new ideas, until they became too outlandish to even consider. His mind kept supplying him with the schemes, anyway. There was simply no way of invading the Qreq stronghold, he thought.

  The debris of the Qreq fleet left in their wakes indicated that the men of Lahar were sailing a steady day behind the enemy. Balor was content to let that gap remain, for he still had no plan; something that would allow him to infiltrate the Qreq ships. Again the terrain was changing, with odd little patches of barrenness interspersed among the jungle green—as if that portion of the forest had been poisoned. At last, this wasteland began to dominate. Now, even the dampness in the air vanished, and all that remained was the heat—a dry, searing heat that seemed to bake the ship.

  The Desolation, Kalese called it, and Balor agreed with the name. This was the land the Warlord had chosen and made his own. Nothing grew in that desert, and no animal lived. The edges of the jungle had been ravaged for food, and wood, and Balor saw how the Warlord fed his people, and enlarged his domain at the same time. He understood also why the Little People were so deeply enraged. With growing dread, and lessening hope, the men of the House of Lahar, and the girl from the Tream sailed deep into the Desolation.