The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Mathew stared numbly at the writhing body of the Abbot, lying on the sand. He watched the goum slay the Archmagus, he saw their leader riding his horse directly at him, and suddenly, with no clear idea what he was doing, he caught hold of John’s hand and turning, began running down the beach as fast as he could.

  Seeing two of his prey escaping, a shout came from the leader. Behind him, Mathew could hear the pounding of hooves, the shrill cries of the goums giving chase, the dying screams of his companions.

  Hearts nearly bursting from their chests, their lungs burning with fear, the two young men fled in blind panic, running without direction, without hope.

  Mathew stumbled in the wet sand and fell. John stopped, reached out his hand to his friend, and pulled him back up. Though each knew that their flight must inevitably end in death, the two ran desperately, driven by the thudding of hoofbeats coming closer and closer, the whistling sound of sabers slashing through the air, the laughter of the goums, who were clearly enjoying this wild chase.

  Then Mathew experienced the strangest sensation. It seemed a hand touched his forehead, his black hood flew back, his red hair streamed out behind him. He glanced about to see who was near him, fearful it was the goum. But the man was still some distance behind him, riding his horse at a canter, obviously playing with his helpless victims.

  Blood pounding in his ears, Mathew turned his head and continued running. Even in his terror he moved with the grace inborn in his people, one hand holding on to John, the other clutching his robes so that he could run without tripping. He did not see the swift change of expression on the leader’s face, he did not hear the new, shouted command to the rider pursuing him.

  Mathew’s strength was flagging. He heard cries directly behind him now and knew any moment he would feel burning pain, feel the blades pierce his body. Horses’ hooves drummed next to him, he could hear the animal’s harsh breathing. John’s hand clung to his with a deathlike grip. . . .

  A heavy weight struck Mathew from behind, knocking him off his feet and sending him tumbling to the ground. A man was on top of him. Mathew struggled, but the goum struck him a blow across the face that stunned him, and the young wizard froze in the sand, sobbing in terror, waiting for death. But the goum, seeing his quarry subdued, rose to his feet. Sick and dizzy, Mathew turned his aching head, looking for John. He saw his friend, kneeling in the sand beside him, his head bowed. He was praying.

  The leader of the goums dismounted and came up behind John. Raising his blade, the goum held it poised above the monk’s neck.

  Screaming, Mathew hurled himself forward. His guard struck him again, dashing him to the ground.

  The sword fell, the blade flashing red in the light of the dying sun.

  John’s headless body slumped sideways into the sand. Warm blood, spurting from the neck, splashed on Mathew’s outstretched arms. Something landed with a horrible, sickening thump in the sand right beside him.

  Mathew saw a gaping mouth, its last prayer on its lips. He stared into wide-open, empty eyes. . .

  Chapter 4

  Water splashed in his face. Sputtering, shaking his head, Mathew regained consciousness. At first he could remember nothing. He knew only that there was a hollow, burning emptiness inside him, and he wondered, too, that he was not dead.

  Dead. The word brought back the memories, and he moaned. He saw the sword flash red in the sunlight. . . .

  “Remarkable hair, unusual color,” came a harsh, deep voice quite near him. “Soft white skin. Now you must find out—”

  The voice sank too low to hear; another responded. Mathew paid little attention to the words. At the time he wasn’t even aware that he understood them. Shock and horror had temporarily driven the skill of speaking and understanding the language from his head. Later he would remember the words he’d heard and realize their portent. Now he only wondered what they were going to do to him.

  He was lying on the ground, somewhere near the ocean, he presumed, for he could hear the waves crashing against the shore. There was a feel of grass beneath his cheek instead of sand, however, so he assumed they must have moved him from the beach. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything except John’s eyes, staring at him reproachfully.

  I am dead. You are not.

  Mathew moaned again.

  Why has my life been spared? Some foul torture perhaps. His stomach wrenched. He turned his own reproach upon Promenthas. Why didn’t You let me die with John?

  Hands caught hold of Mathew, dragging him to his feet. A sharp command and a slap across the face caused him to open his eyes.

  It was twilight. The sun had set, the afterglow lit the sky. He was on the road above the beach, standing in front of the palanquin. The litter’s curtains remained drawn. Two of the goums had hold of him by the upper arms, but once assuring themselves that he could stand on his own, they shoved Mathew forward. Their leader caught the young wizard as he stumbled and yanked him nearer the palanquin.

  The leader grabbed hold of Mathew’s chin, forcing his head up. Rough fingers, clamped beneath his jaw, turned the young wizard’s head to the left and then the right, as though exhibiting him to the unseen person behind the curtains. At length a voice spoke from inside the palanquin. It was a man’s voice—harsh and deep, the voice that had spoken earlier. Mathew caught a glimpse of a bejeweled, slender hand, holding the curtain aside the tiniest crack.

  The leader of the goums let Mathew go. At the same time he asked him a question—or at least Mathew assumed he was being questioned, for the goum looked at him expectantly, obviously awaiting a response. The young wizard shook his head dully, not comprehending, waiting only for them to kill him and end the burning ache within his breast. The goum repeated the question, more loudly this time as if he thought Mathew might be deaf.

  The voice from within the palanquin spoke sharply, and the leader, turning to face Mathew, made a crude gesture with his hand, a gesture whose sexual connotation transcends all languages, is known the world over. The leader made the gesture, then pointed at Mathew’s private parts, then made the gesture again.

  The young wizard regarded the man with disgust. He understood, he thought, what the man was trying to say. But what did it have to do with him?

  Bleakly, angrily, he shook his head. The goum, after studying his face intently, laughed and said something to the man in the palanquin.

  The man, with a nod barely discernible from behind the curtains, spoke again. Somewhere in another part of his brain Mathew understood the man’s words. He stared at the white curtains in a daze.

  “Yes, I agree with you, Kiber. She is a virgin. See to it that she remains one until we reach Kich. Put her in one of the bassourab, so that the sun may not blemish such a delicate flower.”

  The jeweled hand reached out from the curtains, the man gestured. The litter bearers lifted up their poles and carried the palanquin down the road.

  She! Her! Mathew understood that much in the confusion of his mind and suddenly everything became clear.

  They had mistaken him for a woman!

  Kiber, the leader of the goums, took hold of his arm and led him away. Walking almost blindly, Mathew stumbled at the side of his captor, the realization of his plight striking home with the sharp bite of a steel blade.

  This was why he had not been slaughtered with the others. In his mind he saw the Abbot, the Archmagus, John—bearded, all of them. All except Mathew, the Wesman, whose race did not grow facial hair.

  They have mistaken me for a woman! Now what will they do with me? Not that it matters, he thought numbly. Sooner or later they must discover their mistake. And then it will all be over. Certainly it would be better to undeceive them, to lift his robes, reveal his maleness. Undoubtedly he would die swiftly at the hands of this savage. John had died swiftly . . . very swiftly indeed. . . .

  Mathew shuddered, his stomach turning, bile flooding his mouth. He saw his comrades butchered before his eyes, he saw himself dying the same way. The s
hining blade plunging though flesh and bone, the terrible, bursting pain, the final, dreadful scream torn from his lungs.

  Mathew’s legs gave way and he fell. Crouched on the road, he retched. I don’t want to die! I don’t!

  Kiber, with a look of irritation, waited until Mathew had emptied his stomach, then hauled him to his feet, hurrying him along.

  Shivering allover, Mathew trembled so that he could barely walk. He was growing light-headed and knew he would not be able to go much farther. He was going to faint. . . . Fear hit him like cold water in the face. He dare not lose consciousness; his secret might be discovered.

  Fortunately they did not have too far to go. With a grunted command the goum jerked Mathew to a halt in front of one of the long-legged, grotesque-looking camels. Resting on its knees on the ground, the beast gazed at Mathew with an incredibly vicious, stupid expression. Taking hold of the young wizard’s wrists, Kiber bound them together swiftly and skillfully with a strip of leather. The goum pulled aside the flap of the dome-shaped tent atop the camel saddle and gestured for Mathew to enter.

  Mathew stared at the strange-looking saddle and the precarious tent covering it without the vaguest idea what to do. He had never ridden a horse, let alone any creature this big. The camel snaked its head around to look at him, chewing its cud like a cow. Its teeth were enormous. Kiber, anxious to get the caravan on its way, reached out his arms, obviously intending to pick Mathew up bodily.

  Fear jolted the young wizard to action. Not wanting the man to touch him, he clumsily scrambled up into the odd-looking saddle. With gestures the goum indicated Mathew was to curl one leg around the horn of the saddle, locking it in place by placing the other over it. Then, either to prevent his prisoner from escaping or because he had noted Mathew’s deathly pale face and the greenish shadows beneath his eyes, Kiber tied the young wizard to the saddle and to the sides of the camel tent with long lengths of cloth.

  Pulling the curtains of the bassourab shut, the goum shouted, “Adar-ya-yan!”

  Grumbling, the camel rose to its feet, moving with a rolling motion that brought back memories of the stormtossed ship.

  Mathew blessed the tent surrounding him, for it prevented him from seeing how high he was off the ground. Kiber shouted again and the beast started walking. Mathew’s queasy stomach lurched with every step. Slumping over the saddle and thankful that no one could see him, the young wizard gave himself up to dark despair.

  Everything had happened so swiftly, so suddenly, one moment he was standing on a sun-drenched beach with John. The next moment, John was dead and he was captured. And every moment from now on, Mathew would live with the edge of a knife constantly at his throat. And he knew, sooner or later, the blade would jab home. Sooner or later he must be discovered. He was spinning out the thread of his life for a few minutes, an hour, perhaps a day, two at most. He was alive, but what kind of life was he facing? A life of constant torment, a life without hope, a life of looking forward to death.

  Tell them the truth. Do you want to live with this fear, waiting in terror for the moment that will come—yes, it will come— when you are found out? End it quickly! Die now! Die with your brothers. Die bravely. . .

  “I can’t!” Mathew’s teeth clenched together, cold sweat slid down his body. He saw John’s headless trunk slumping to the sand, he felt the warm blood splashing on his hands. “I can’t!” Hiding behind a woman’s skirts—an old and shameful saying in his country. What about hiding in a woman’s skirts! What greater shame was that? He moaned, rocking back and forth. “I am a coward! A coward!”

  Mathew was sick again—the stench of the camel, the jolting motion, his fear, and his memories of the terrible sights he had witnessed all combining to twist his bowels and wrench his stomach. Clinging to the saddle, he shook with pain and terror, providing further proof for himself that he was a craven coward.

  He never stopped to consider that he was young, lost, alone in a strange and terrible land, that he had seen those he loved murdered before his eyes, that he had been beaten, was sick and in shock.

  No, in Mathew’s eyes he was a coward, unworthy of having lived when those so much braver and better than he had given up their lives for their faith.

  Their faith. His faith. Mathew tried to whisper a prayer, then stopped. Undoubtedly Promenthas had abandoned him as well. All knew the God took the soul of the martyred to dwell with him in eternal bliss forever. What about the soul of the coward? How would Mathew face Promenthas, John, the Archmagus? Even after death, there would be no comfort for him.

  The journey was a nightmare that seemed to last for endless days, although in reality it was only an hour. With the advent of night the caravan came to a halt. In a stupor from his agony of mind and body, Mathew had only the vaguest comprehension of the camel he was riding lurching awkwardly to the ground. He remained where he was, lost in misery, until a hand thrust aside the curtain. Two goums untied Mathew, grabbed hold of him, and dragged him from the saddle.

  At first he was afraid he could not walk. The moment his feet touched the ground, his knees buckled. Falling, he saw his captors bending down to lift him up and carry him. Terror revived him. Shaking off the hands of the goums, Mathew staggered to his feet.

  The moon was full and bright. Glancing around, Mathew saw that they had traveled inland and were now far from the sea. He heard the sound of water, but it was a river. The camp was being established on its banks in the middle of a vast expanse of grassy plain. The smell and sound and sight of the river water made him realize how thirsty he was. His throat was parched and hurting from the seawater and his sickness. But he dared not call attention to himself by asking for something to drink.

  To distract himself he continued looking around. The palanquin had been carried to the front of a large tent, surrounded by a bevy of slaves. The goums were working efficiently to set up tents, groom and water the horses, spread out fodder for the camels. Several women, their heads and bodies swathed in black, silk, were being assisted out of other bassourabs and taken to small tents. Most of the women, Mathew saw, had their hands bound like his.

  The men with the iron collars slumped to the ground where they stood. Sitting with heads bowed between their legs, their hands dangling in front of them, they took no interest in anything going on around them.

  Once again Mathew wondered, ‘What are they going to do to me?’ His gaze returned to the palanquin in time to see a man dressed in white robes, his head and body covered by the folds of white burnoose, leave the litter. A canopy had been erected by the slaves in front of the tent, cushions were carefully arranged on the ground. The man ducked beneath the canopy and settled himself among the cushions. Lounging on one arm, he made several gestures that sent slaves flying to do his bidding. Mathew was watching in weary, numb fascination when Kiber, jabbing him, pointed at a tent.

  Nodding, Mathew started to walk toward it, hoping he had the energy to travel the short distance. The tent was a small one. Made of strips of wool sewn together, it was barely large enough for one person. It didn’t matter. Ducking inside, Mathew fell thankfully to the firm, solid ground.

  He was just realizing that he would have to go in search of water soon or perish when a head thrust itself into the tent. It was Kiber. Hastily Mathew sat up, his hands reaching instinctively to gather his robes close around his body.

  The goum tossed a waterskin onto the floor of the tent. Snatching it up, Mathew drank greedily, gulping the water down, never minding that it tasted of camel. Watching him, Kiber gave a grunt of satisfaction, then threw down a bundle at Mathew’s feet. Taking a sharp dagger from his belt, the goum crouched down in front of Mathew, and the young wizard’s raw throat constricted in terror.

  Kiber was not going to kill him, however. With a quick slice the goum neatly severed Mathew’s wrist bonds, then gestured from the bundle to Mathew and back to the bundle again.

  Mathew stared at the bundle, puzzled.

  Picking it up, Kiber thrust it into his han
ds. Mathew examined it, and slowly it occurred to his stupefied brain what he was holding.

  Clothing. Women’s clothing.

  He looked up at the goum, who gestured again peremptorily, adding something in a sharp tone and pointing with a grimace of disgust to Mathew’s own filthy robes.

  It was obvious what the man meant. Mathew clutched the bundle tightly. This was the moment. This was the time to make his stand. Firmly, courageously, he would rise to his feet. He would reveal the truth and accept his fate, dying bravely, dying with dignity.

  Dying. . . .

  Fear clenched his stomach. He tried to stand, but he had no strength in his legs. Tears blurred his vision. Finally, gulping, he bowed his head. Kiber, with another grunt, left the tent.

  Spreading out the women’s clothes upon the ground, Mathew slowly began to strip off his bloodstained robes.

  Chapter 5

  The women’s clothing fit easily over Mathew’s slight, slender frame, the sheer bulk and graceful folds of the fabric concealing his flat chest and narrow hips, aiding in his disguise. It was certainly different from the low-cut, full-skirted dresses worn by women in his own land—dresses that revealed a broad expanse of snowy—white bosom, of powdered shoulders, dresses whose silken fabric swept the floor and could be raised to show the turn of an ankle.

  Fingers trembling, fearing to hear footsteps outside, he hastily drew on the silken, full-cut cotton trousers. Similar to those the men wore, they fit tightly about his ankles. A gauze smock covered his upper body, its sleeves reaching to the elbow. Over this fit a buttoned waistcoat with long sleeves to the wrist, then, over everything—an ankle-length black caftan, and finally a black veil that covered face and head, soft leather slippers for his feet.

  Viewing these clothes in the dim moonlight that filtered through his tent, Mathew saw a mental image of himself, running along the beach, his black robes fluttering about him. The goums’ mistake was understandable, perhaps inevitable.