Magic flared as the demon struck his shield, knocking Arlen over, but even as the wards activated, Arlen knew they would not hold forever. No demon should have been able to touch his shield at all, but this one held on tenaciously against the force of the magic trying to repel it.
The demon was heavier than it looked, but Arlen got his weight under the shield and lifted, driving hard into the adobe wall. The coreling’s claws lost purchase with the impact, and the magic, still pushing hard against the prone demon, flung Arlen backwards instead. He landed in the pile of pottery, smashing much of the priceless artwork.
“Corespawn it!” he cursed, but there was no time to lament, for the demon hurled itself into the pile, scattering clay shards everywhere. Arlen was jabbed and cut from all sides by the jagged clay bits as he tried to put his feet under him.
He managed to get his shield up as the clay demon leapt at him again, but the demon dug its claws in deep and pulled so hard that the leather straps around Arlen’s forearm snapped, and the shield was pulled from his grasp. He stumbled frantically backwards, trying to get away from the creature before it could untangle itself and come at him again. It would be a long run back to his portable circles without his shield, and from what he had just seen, there was no guarantee his circles would even hold the creature back.
The demon leapt again, but Arlen had his spear up, stabbing the creature right in the center of its chest. It was a powerful blow from a fine weapon, but even the weakest coreling had armor enough to turn a speartip. The point failed to pierce, but the demon took the torch in its face, knocking it from its socket. Arlen shoved hard, throwing the demon back, and in the flickering light, he saw it stumble awkwardly, momentarily blinded by the light.
“Come on, then!” Arlen shouted, goading the demon as he edged towards the door. It leapt at him one last time, still dazzled, but Arlen was ready for it. Snatching the door curtain, he caught the clay demon up in its crusted and dusty folds, gripping the ends tightly as the coreling struggled. The curtain tore from the rod as Arlen pushed out the door and to the stair ledge, throwing the demon over. Still tangled in the curtain, its roars were muffled as it fell to the courtyard far below.
Arlen rushed back to snatch up the torch. He left his pack where it lay, along with his broken shield and spear, and hurried back out to the stairs. He was about to head down when a scrabbling sound vibrated in the air. He looked at the adobe walls going up the cliff face, and felt his stomach churn as they came alive with clay demons.
Gonna get’cher self killed one of these days, Arlen heard his father say, but at that moment, he had neither time nor inclination to disagree. He turned and ran down the steps as fast as his legs could carry him.
Moving faster than he could see his footing in the flickering torchlight, Arlen took steps several at a time, but it wasn’t enough. There were demons ahead of him as well as behind. He must have climbed right past them on the way up, oblivious. As he came towards a landing, a pair of clay demons bounded around the corner from the tier below, talons tamping down as their muscles tense to spring.
Arlen had no way to arrest his downward motion when they appeared, so he did the only thing he could think of and rolled right over the edge of the wall.
The drop was a good ten feet, and he landed heavily on his side on the steps of the next tier. The demons gave chase, but Arlen shoved his pain aside, bounced to his feet, and ran on.
The demons were fast, but Arlen’s legs were longer, and desperation gave him blinding speed. As much from memory as from sight, he dodged around the Krasian blockades, suddenly thankful that the dal’Sharum had torn apart the lower levels for fodder.
A demon dropped onto him from above, talons digging deep into his back as its teeth sank into his shoulder, but Arlen hardly slowed. He shoved the torch in the demon’s face and threw himself backwards into the cliff wall, blasting the breath from the creature and breaking its hold. He grabbed the coreling and threw it at another pair hurtling down the steps at him.
Using the bright torch to drive demons back, Arlen ran on. He fell twice, twisting his ankle badly once, but both times he was back up and running before the pain registered. Behind him, it seemed as if the entire cliff face had become a swarm of roaring demons.
He leapt over another wall to avoid the last infested landing and sprinted for his campfire, only to find the clay demon he had thrown over the cliff trapped in the middle of his circle. The height and cloth wrapping must have protected it from the wards on the way in, but the creature now clawed madly at the wardnet in its desperation to escape, sending spiderwebs of white magic through the air.
Unable to use his own circle, Arlen ran on to Dawn Runner’s. A clay demon blocked his path, but as it leapt at him, Arlen dropped his torch and grabbed it in both hands. The demon’s sharp scales cut his hands and he caught a blast of its rank breath in his face, but he pivoted sharply, using its own energy to hurl the creature into one of the demon pits in the courtyard.
There was a shriek as Arlen dove into the horse’s portable circle, and the wards flared brightly as a wind demon struck the net. The coreling was hurled back and would have gone into the same pit as the clay demon had it not spread its wings in time to catch itself. It shrieked at him again, revealing rows of teeth in the light of the wards.
But Arlen wasn’t safe yet. The clay demons surged at him in a wave, dozens of them charging the circle. The wards flared as the demons tried to cross the line, stopping them short, but the clay demons were not hurled back as they should be. Magic shocked through their snub bodies and they howled in pain, but still they dug their claws into the clay and inched forward against the press. Arlen moved around the circle, kicking them back from the net, but it was an impossible task to maintain for long, and it was still early in the night. Sooner or later, the clay demons would get through. Dawn Runner knew it too, the beast struggling hard against the ropes.
But then a roar sounded that dwarfed even the cacophony of the clay demons, and One Arm bounded into the courtyard. The rock demon was fifteen feet tall from horn to toe, covered in a thick black carapace that could not be harmed by anything short of the most potent wards.
Jealous as ever, the giant coreling swept the clay demons aside with its good arm like a man might sweep autumn leaves, clearing a path to Arlen’s circle. It roared at any clay demon foolish enough to draw close, killing more than a few of its smaller cousins before they took the message to heart.
Arlen had crippled One Arm in their first encounter, almost ten years gone. Little more than a boy at the time, he had severed the behemoth’s limb more by accident than design, but One Arm was immortal, and as incapable of forgetting as it was of forgiveness.
Every night, One Arm rose in the place it had last seen Arlen, and followed his trail. No matter how many rivers Arlen swam or trees he climbed, the great demon always caught up to him in a matter of hours, running more swiftly than any horse. Tireless, thirstless, its only thoughts were of vengeance.
The rock demon hammered at Arlen’s wards, illuminating the entire river bowl with magic as it attempted to take its revenge, but Arlen knew his rock wards well, and there was little chance that One Arm would succeed. Still, as he sat back, staring up at the enraged creature, he felt no comfort at the unexpected rescue from the clay demons. He knew that sooner or later, the mighty rock demon would catch him on the wrong side of the wards, and then he would likely wish the clay demons had gotten him.
But for now, he flung the demon an obscene gesture, and dug into Dawn Runner’s saddlebags for his spare herb pouch and bandages.
He had become quite good at stitching up his own skin.
* * * * *
Just before dawn, as the sky began to lighten, Arlen was startled awake by frantic shrieking. A light sleeper by necessity, he leapt up, shaking off slumber like a blanket. One Arm had already sunk back down into the Core, as had all the wind and clay demons save one.
The coreling trapped in Arlen’s main ci
rcle smashed hard against the wardnet, clawing at the web of magic, but it was unable to pass. The wards might not be wholly attuned to clay demons, but when a coreling was surrounded on all sides by a complete circuit, the net’s power was increased manifold.
The horizon brightened further, and Arlen watched the demon’s last moments of existence with great interest. In the growing light, the creature looked a little like an armadillo, with segmented plates of orange armor along its back and powerful stub legs covered in thick, sharp scales and ending in hooked claws. Its blunt head was shaped like a cylinder, able to butt with tremendous force, which it demonstrated repeatedly as it smashed vainly against magic walls of its prison.
Rays of light began to reach the dry riverbed, and the coreling screamed in pain, though the canyon walls still kept it in shadow. It wouldn’t be long.
In desperation, the demon became insubstantial, disintegrating into an orange mist that filled the circle. But even its dematerialized form was unable to escape. There was no path to the Core in the clay floor inside the wardnet, and it flowed towards the edges of the circle, but crackles of magic held it at bay, shivering through the mist like lightning dancing through a cloud.
The mist flowed around the circle, trying again and again to find a hole in Arlen’s tight net. Even in its disembodied state, Arlen could taste its desperation and fear, and he tensed with excitement. Demons were all-but immune to mortal weapons. The only guaranteed way to kill one was to trap it in a warded circle and wait for the sun, a task that often took as many humans with it as demons.
Finally, the sun rose high enough to reach the far side of the river, and Arlen could see sparks catching in the orange cloud like kindling. Suddenly, there was a flash of intense heat as the mist ignited, setting the very air on fire. Arlen felt the rush of vacuum; his eyes dried out and his cheeks reddened, but he could not have looked away if his life depended on it. For all that demons had taken from the world, Arlen would never tire of seeing one pay the ultimate price for its evil.
He searched his campsite after the demon flame expired, but most of his gear had been torn apart and smashed by the demon, or else burned when it ignited the air. He had spares of the most irreplaceable items in Dawn Runner’s circle, but that one dead demon was going to end up costing him most of his profit from selling the pottery.
If there was even pottery left to sell. Arlen rushed back up the stairs to Master Dravazi’s workshop, and as he feared, almost every piece was cracked or shattered. He searched the rest of the adobe buildings and found a great deal of pottery, but it was sturdy and utilitarian. The Bahavans, dependent on trade to survive, had wasted little of their artistry on ornamenting the pieces they used themselves. He would be lucky to even cover his losses.
Still, despite the pain and loss, Arlen rode out of the canyon with his head high. He had seen someplace no one had visited in over twenty years, braved its demons, and would return to tell the tale.
One of these days, your luck won’t hold, his father’s voice reminded him.
Maybe, he thought back to it, but not today.
* * * * *
Abban limped through the great bazaar of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, leaning heavily on his crutch. He was a large-bellied man, but his lame leg would not have been able to support him in any event.
He wore a yellow silk turban, topped with a tan felt cap. Under his tan suede vest he wore a loose shirt of bright blue silk, covered in thread-of-gold scrollwork, and his fingers glittered with rings. His pantaloons, the same yellow silk as his turban, were held up by a jeweled belt, and the head of his crutch was smooth white ivory, carved into the likeness of the first camel he had ever bought, with his armpit resting between its two humps.
The bazaar sprawled for miles along the inner walls of the city. There on the hot, dusty streets were seemingly endless kiosks, tents, and pens, showcasing food, spices, perfume, clothing, jewelry, furniture, livestock, pack animals, and anything else a buyer could possibly want.
Much like the Maze outside the walls, designed to let the dal’Sharum trap and kill any demon attempting to get into the city, the bazaar was designed to trap shoppers and put them off balance as the vendors descended on them. The dazzling array of goods and the aggressiveness of the sellers weakened the resolve and loosened the purse strings of even the most difficult to please shopper, and apparent exits from the district were more often than not dead ends as the ever-shifting kiosks blocked through-passage of the street. Even those familiar with the twists and turns of the bazaar found themselves lost from time to time.
But not Abban. The bazaar was his home, and the sound of shouted haggling was the air he breathed. He could no more get lost in the bazaar than the First Warrior get lost in the Maze.
Abban was born in his family’s tent, right in the center of the bazaar. His grandmother had served as midwife, and Abban’s father, Chabin, had kept their kiosk open to customers even while his wife howled in the back. He couldn’t afford to lose the business, especially if there was to be another mouth to feed.
Chabin was a good man, Abban remembered, a hard worker trying to provide for his family even though his cowardice had made him unsuitable as a warrior, and the clerics had found his faith lacking.
Denied those two vocations, the only callings considered suitable for a Krasian man, Abban’s father had been forced to bend his back each day, toiling like a woman. He was khaffit, a man without honor, and the paradise of Everam would forever be denied him as a result.
But Chabin had shouldered his burdens without complaint, turning a minor kiosk of substandard trinkets into a bustling business with clients as far away as the green lands to the north. He had taught Abban about mathematics and geography, showing him how to draw words and to speak the tongue of greenlanders so that he could haggle with their Messengers over the goods they brought to trade. He taught Abban many things, but most of all, Chabin had taught Abban to fear the dama. A lesson provided at the cost of his own life.
Dama, the clerics of Everam, were at the highest echelon of Krasian society. They wore bright white robes that could be spotted at a distance, and served as a bridge between man and Creator. It was within the rights of the dama to kill any tribesman below their station, instantly and without fear of reprisal, if they felt that the man was disrespecting them or the sacred laws they enforced.
Abban had been eight when his father was killed. Cob, a Messenger from the north, had come to the kiosk, buying supplies for his return trek. He was a valued customer and a vital link to the flow of goods form the green lands. Abban knew to treat the man like a prince.
“Damaged one of my circles on the trek in,” Cob said, limping with the aid of his spear. “I’ll need rope and paint.”
Chabin snapped his fingers, and Abban handed his father a small pot of paint while he ran to fetch the rope.
“Damned sand demon bit off half my foot before I could retreat to my spare,” Cob said, showing his bandaged foot.
Distracted by the sight, neither Chabin nor Cob had not noticed the dama passing by.
But the dama had noticed them; particularly that Abban’s father had failed to bow low in submission, as was required of a khaffit in the presence of a cleric.
“Bow, you filthy khaffit!” the dal’Sharum escorting the dama had barked.
Chabin, startled by the shout, had whirled around, accidentally spilling paint onto the dama’s pristine white robe.
For a moment, time seemed frozen, and then the enraged dama reached over the counter and took hold of Chabin’s hair and chin, twisting sharply. A crack, like the sound of wood breaking, resounded in the tent, and Abban’s father fell over, dead.
It was over a quarter century since that day, but Abban still remembered the sound vividly.
When he was old enough, Abban had been forced to try his hand at being a warrior, that he might not share his father’s shame. But though his Chabin’s caste was not hereditary, Abban had proven just as weak, just as cowardly. He
was still a novice when the brutal training crippled him, and he found himself cast out as khaffit.
Abban nodded at some merchants as he passed their kiosks. The vendors were mostly women, wrapped head-to-toe in heavy black cloth, though there were other khaffit like him, as well. They, like Abban, were easily distinguishable in their bright clothes, though all wore the plain tan cap and vest of their caste. Apart from khaffit, only women wore bright, colorful clothing, and they only when alone with their husbands or other women.
If the merchant women felt contempt at the sight of Abban the khaffit, they knew better than to show it. Though he shared his father’s weaknesses, Abban had inherited Chabin’s strengths as well, and the family business had grown every year since Abban had taken the reins. Offending him invariably meant a loss of business, as the fat khaffit had connections and ongoing deals throughout the bazaar and in cities hundreds of miles to the north. The bulk of trade from the green lands came through Abban, and any who wanted access to the valuable exotic merchandise kept their disdain to themselves.
All except one. There was a shout from across the street as Abban came to his own pavilion, and he looked with disgust at the competitor who hobbled towards him.
“Abban, my friend!” the man called, though he was anything but. “I thought I recognized your bright womanly clothes coming down the street! How is business this day?”
Abban scowled, but he knew better than to offer a rude response. Amit asu Samere am’Rajith am’Majah was a dal’Sharum warrior, as far above Abban the khaffit as a man was above a woman, and while it was not technically legal for a dal’Sharum to kill a khaffit without just cause, in practice, there would be little or no repercussion if one did.
This was why Abban had to pretend that the occasional carts of goods that vanished from his possession had never existed, much less been stolen, even when he knew it had been Amit’s people who took them.
The Great Bazaar & Brayan's Gold Page 2
