Merchant of Alyss

by Thomas Locke

  The forces had multiplied to where the narrow vale could no longer hold their numbers. The ghosts of past wars stretched back as far as he could see. Their numbers climbed the ridges and lined the high reaches to either side. All stood and listened. Waiting.

  “The forces gathered against us are not just our enemy. They are yours. They have bound you for so long you have forgotten there was ever an alternative to your prison. But heed my words. I am Milantian. If it is in their power to bind you, it must be in mine to free you. I do not know how. But I pledge to you this. Fight with us, and I will spend the rest of my life searching for the key to your release.”

  He waited with them now. One breath, another. Relishing the simple act of doing what they could not. Feeling his heart thunder. Tasting the fresh salt of sweat from a new day. One where he would fight. And win. Perhaps. With their help.

  He repeated a third time, “I am Milantian. If you are required to follow orders from this race, then will you do so now? With us? I do not command. I ask. Will you pledge loyalty to our cause, and in return accept my pledge of seeking your release?”

  This time he let the silence linger. Willing to stand all day if necessary. But the sun had scarcely moved a handbreadth before Shona said, “Sire, they are yours to command.”

  41

  They ate a final hot meal and once more drank their fill of tea. Then they hobbled the horses by the narrow patch of green and used a stone with a hollow like a natural trench as a watering trough. They piled oats on another stone, then set off.

  They crossed the final ridges and entered the yellow plains. Hyam listened to their rasping breaths and knew their deaths probably awaited them beyond the shimmering horizon. Unless he was right in his planning. Unless he could look beyond his doubts and fears. Unless . . .

  They stopped at a series of regular shapes rising from the sands. Selim reckoned they had arrived at the first caravansary, and suggested they make camp. He explained how a city the size of Alyss would have several journeymen camps, and the farthest removed would be for the corralling and butchering of livestock.

  The sun was a molten orb on the western horizon. They did not risk fire or mage-heat, which meant they ate a cold meal washed down with water. The unseen city held them now. As Hyam reviewed their plans for the next day, he felt the vast emptiness swallow his words as soon as they were formed.

  He was about to suggest they turn in early when Meda said softly, “Ho, the bird.”

  A faint speck appeared in the northern sky, drifted down, and became a bird with wings broader than a man’s reach. The desert eagle held a bundle in its claws, which it dropped at Hyam’s feet before landing.

  Hyam ignored the bundle, stomped over, and demanded, “Where have you been?”

  The bird chattered swiftly, “Your foes watch the skies. The master bade me hide.”

  “He promised you would guide us!”

  “And that is why I have come.”

  Hyam planted fists on hips, ready to condemn, but in the end thought better of quarreling with a bird whose help was desperately needed. He translated for the others, who now clustered about him. His relief was so great he had to concede, “It is very good to see you.”

  The bird preened, clearly pleased. “The master says the enemy suspects you are coming. They do not see you, but they sense your arrival. Which is bad. But they also fear you. Which is very good indeed.”

  Hyam nodded. It was to be expected, but still the news left him quaking. “Can the dragon see them?”

  “My master senses what he cannot see.”

  “Can we go around Alyss?”

  “The surrounding coast is under their control. The seas as well. To meet my master, you must journey from the city harbor. It is the one point of contact ever permitted between your race and his.”

  Which meant they had to meet the foe. If only Hyam could make it on his terms. “Understood.”

  “The master asks, do you intend to confront the evil head-on?”

  “I see no alternative.”

  “The master agrees.” The bird pointed with its beak at the bundle. “He says this should help you make the required transition.”

  Hyam glanced down at the bundle. The cloth covering was the color of fresh blood. He realized what he saw and halted his objection before it was uttered. There was nothing to be gained from arguing with the messenger. He said to the bird, “For our plan to work, we need two hills. Set well apart from each other. And from which we can observe each other as well as the enemy’s approach.”

  The bird flapped its wings once, twice, rising up three times Hyam’s height. Then it settled, facing east. Its head cocked back and forth. Then, “A mound marks what were the northern corrals.”

  “How far?”

  “On foot . . .” The bird partly extended its wings, almost a shrug. “Just beyond the horizon.”

  Call it two hours’ walk. “And the second?”

  “Straight ahead are the remnants of the main gates. To the south rises the last tower of Alyss.”

  “Excellent.”

  The bird leapt skyward. “Farewell, Emissary. My master bids you success and awaits you beyond the harbor!”

  They rested through the first part of the night, though Hyam did not sleep. There was no moon, and the absence of a fire left Hyam feeling as though the night and the desert fought over who would swallow them.

  In the dark hour before daybreak they rose in silence, ate a few bites, drank more water, then stood awkwardly. Hyam was searching for a way to thank them properly when the normally silent Alembord said, “My lady, I have a request to make.”

  Shona replied, “There is no need to address me in this manner.”

  “My lady,” he repeated. “I would ask that you allow me to offer fealty.”

  Shona was so shocked, Alembord had already knelt in the dust before she managed, “I hold no title.”

  “Yet,” Meda said softly. “But you will. Soon.”

  “My lady, I ask to be the first to pledge you his loyalty and his life,” Alembord said. He stumbled a bit but struggled gamely on, and neither the night nor their paltry numbers could halt the flow. “I ask the privilege of serving whatever cause you declare your own. With all that I am and all that I have, to the utmost of my abilities, to the giving of my life’s last breath if it is required of me. So do I pledge.”

  Meda stepped forward, unsheathed the Milantian sword, and turned it so that she held it balanced upon her forearm, the hilt facing toward Shona. “Do you accept his gift?”

  “I . . . Yes.”

  “Then tap him on both shoulders, and thank him, and speak his name, and invite him to rise.”

  As Shona did so, the memory of having done the same for Joelle caused Hyam’s eyes to burn.

  But the pre-dawn hour held more surprises still, for when Shona tried to return the sword, Meda said, “I want you to keep it.”

  “But . . . Hyam . . .”

  “The blade is neither Hyam’s nor mine. It belongs to Joelle. And I saw the havoc she wreaked during the Emporis battle. You heard of this.”

  “Many times,” Shona said quietly. “But I don’t know how to use it.”

  Hyam replied, “Neither did she.” He nodded to Meda. “It is a good idea. I wish I had thought of it.”

  Meda offered what Hyam suspected would be the day’s only smile. “Good thing you have me here, then.”

  “It is indeed,” Hyam agreed. To Shona, he went on, “Whatever spell you build with the orb, direct it through the sword. That’s my advice.”

  They stood there a moment, united by bonds strong enough to defy the city’s oppressive force. Finally Selim said, “Dawn comes.”

  Hyam embraced them one by one. Then he stepped back and said, “Until we meet at the harbor.”

  Selim carried his bow and a full quiver as they crossed the darkened plain. “What do your warriors speak of on their way to battle?”

  “I have no idea. My only experience with war was Emp
oris. And the day before that fight, I wed Joelle.” Hyam stared into the vague wash of an unborn day. “That morning we spoke of love.”

  They trudged on for a time, then Selim asked, “You have seen the great forest?”

  “I was raised on its borders.”

  “Some other time, you must tell me of this place.”

  “With pleasure.” The renegade Elf remained a silhouette against the night’s final stars. Hyam said, “You’re a professional traveler. Why have you never gone?”

  “I went to Ethrin once. Nowadays it is nothing but a sweep of desert pines. I breathed the taint of ancient wounds. The lure was still strong for me, and I feared . . .”

  “You were concerned you might enter the forest and never leave, and thus lose what you now have,” Hyam said. “The desert and the caravan and the life you’ve built for yourself.”

  “And my beloved family,” Selim added. “My grandfather filled our hidden valley with a grove of eucalyptus and cottonwood and fruit trees. I brought back seedlings from Ethrin. When I am home, I go out at the full moon and sing to them the Elven welcome. I taught my daughters the melody. I have named my valley Ethrin. It is enough.”

  “I would love to see your valley and walk among those trees.”

  “And so you shall,” Selim vowed. “Soon.”

  The tower rose from the gloom, a sullen thumb carved into the pale wash. They hustled, then trotted, then raced the gathering dawn. They puffed hard as they scaled the outer wall, the surface so pitted it was almost like climbing a broken staircase.

  When they arrived at the top, they scanned the ruined city. There was little left of Alyss save the faint shadows of straight lines and square foundations, the symbols of man’s grandeur, now lost to time and sand. Still, it made for an awesome vista, for the ruins stretched out in unbroken silence, so vast they could see no hint of the sea beyond.

  When Selim had caught his breath, he said, “I spy no enemy.”

  “I think Milantians live underground,” Hyam replied. “Lystra was not a city that the passing eons turned into hills. The Milantians chose hills as a base and built into them. Same with the red ridges we passed. Perhaps the golems were first created in some distant epoch, intended to carve homes in mountains that are no more.”

  “So you think they are here.”

  “I am certain of it. Our job is to draw them out.” Hyam inspected the renegade Elf. “Does your clan hold to any tales about Alyss from before the fall?”

  “Our family’s legacy describes this city as a haven for many races, a carnival for the senses, where even a half-wit could build a fortune and establish both a name and a reason for his days. That was how my forefather referred to himself. A half-wit who fell in love with an innkeeper’s daughter.”

  “And became a man of wealth with a reason for his days.” Hyam knelt on the tower’s dusty stones and unwrapped the bundle brought to him by the desert bird. “Who could ask for more?”

  Selim studied him for a time, then said, “My wife told me I must make this journey. The night of my return from Emporis, she said I had changed, and for the better. I told her of you and of the quest. I then tried to speak of Lystra but could not.”

  “The dragon told the queen he would seal our lips,” Hyam recalled.

  “I told my wife of our destination. I wanted her to know the risks. Do you know what she said?”

  Hyam held a crimson robe out at arm’s length for them both to inspect. “I have no idea.”

  “She said something had been awakened in me. Something she had loved from our first meeting but never seen fully revealed until now. She said I must see this quest through to the end, then come home to her with my heart intact. At long last.” Selim watched Hyam slip the robe over his head. “Why do you suppose the dragon wants you to wear the cloak of a Milantian mage?”

  “To confuse our enemy,” Hyam replied. “And to confirm my heritage.”

  “Let us hope it works.” Selim pointed to the hill becoming ever clearer in the gathering light. “They signal us. It is time to begin.”

  42

  As they watched Hyam and Selim depart, Meda said, “Remember our aims.”

  “Diversion, patience, surprise,” Alembord replied, his voice hard as the desert light.

  “And the vial,” Meda added. “We have given Hyam our word. Whoever survives must help the ghost army search the Milantian realm, find Joelle’s breath, and deliver the container to the Elves.”

  “It will be done,” Fareed replied solemnly. “Our oath upon it.”

  Shona walked with the others across a dusty plain toward a hill they could not see. Guided by a bird who was nowhere to be found. The Milantian sword was strapped to her back and bounced uncomfortably as she marched. The sword-belt was bound beneath her ribs and the buckle gnawed at her middle. The wand hung from a loop in the cloth belt holding up her trousers and patted her thigh with each step. She could feel a new blister growing under her sandal strap. Her legs ached and her skin was caked with grit and dried sweat. There was every chance she would not survive the coming day.

  She had never been happier.

  Alembord observed, “Shona’s sword is not riding properly.”

  “So I see.” Meda adjusted the scabbard. “How is that?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  They walked for a time, until the hill appeared as a vague lump directly ahead. They paused to drink, passing the skin from hand to hand. The land remained as empty as the sky. The hill was a lone mound, a hundred paces high, and not steep. But the surface was ankle-deep sand, fine as milled flour. They scaled the slope on all fours. When they crested the hill, the light had strengthened to where they could see the city clearly. There was little left except vague hints of past triumphs and wealth. There was no sound save the soft rasp of their own breathing. But the dawn light had competition now, for both Shona’s and Fareed’s wands had started glowing.

  Meda watched as Fareed held his wand aloft. “What does this mean?”

  “There must be a current of power running through the earth below us,” Shona said.

  Fareed said, “The legends claim mages lived in all the ancient cities. Practicing magic in the open.”

  Meda gestured to the long straight-line indentation that ran horizon to horizon, between them and the ruins. “Why not build the city wall to include such a place of power?”

  “Perhaps all the city has such veins of force,” Fareed suggested.

  “Or they kept magic outside the walls,” Shona said.

  Meda clearly disliked starting their attack in the face of such mysteries. But all she said was, “Signal Hyam that we are in position.”

  Hyam thought the light shining upon the distant hilltop held an uncommon brilliance. He stood for a moment and relished the silver-violet illumination. Its aura took him back to the last time he had held his orb. The morning of the Emporis attack, he had given it to Trace, who had wielded it until Hyam had extended his power across the desert valley and shot the orb like a crystal bomb at the red mage. And like a bomb it had exploded, turning both orbs and their crimson foe into dust. But Hyam’s usage of mage-force without his own orb as a conduit had burned him so badly he had lost his abilities. Victory for the realm, defeat for him.

  Hyam refocused on the battle at hand. Selim’s bow was triple curved and not large by hunting standards. What was more, the two ends of Selim’s bow slanted away from the archer, while the middle was so thick it looked deformed. A handhold was carved into this broad center. Time and sweat had oiled the wood and turned it slick as a black mirror.

  Hyam watched Selim string it and said, “I have never seen such a bow.”

  “It is a desert weapon, made for shooting from the back of a galloping animal. The tips are enameled antler horn. The wood I carved from the heartwood of a felled tree within the Ethrin grove.”

  Hyam flicked the string and listened to the hum of a death harp. “It was made for this very day.”

  “So I
am thinking also.” Selim selected an arrow. “Make your spell.”

  Hyam turned to the ruined city. He touched the center of his forehead and shouted in Elven, “Reveal!”

  Instantly his own earthbound star defied the morning, the desert, and the unseen foe.

  In some respects, Hyam was more frightened than when he had entered the Emporis battle. Then he had been guided through Elven tunnels, while an army of allies had surrounded him on all sides. But this morning his meager company had been guided into position by a bird that had now vanished. Even so, Hyam’s fear could not touch some deeper part of him. Down at the level of bone and sinew and spell casting, Hyam was gripped by an uncommon calm, a stillness strong as the grave.

  As he began weaving his spell, Hyam wondered if this was what it meant to embrace his Milantian blood. Perhaps fear, that most human of emotions, did not touch them.

  Hyam finished the spell. He then drew his dagger and touched the arrow fit into Selim’s bow. “Now we will see.”

  Selim hesitated. “I sense no power at work.”

  Neither did Hyam. He had the momentary sense of leading his company off the edge of a cliff. Onto the rocks far below. Lost to the shadows of a morning they would never witness. But it was too late now. They were committed.

  “Loose your arrow!”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Meda gestured for Fareed to extinguish his wand.

  The absence of Fareed’s light left Shona feeling both isolated and vulnerable. The ruined city stretched out before her, silent and deadly. Suddenly she felt as though every spell she had studied was lost to her, brief wisps of a life that she would not have a chance to claim.

  Meda squinted at the tower and asked, “What’s holding them up?”

  Fareed said, “Patience, mistress.”

  Shona could not fully hold back her terror. “Show me the spell to recharge the wand.”

  “You did it in the valley,” Fareed pointed out. “Several times.”

  “Remind me again.”

  Fareed was clearly reluctant to look away from the silent tower, but he lifted his wand and said, “Pay attention.”