by Allan Cole
He’d left materials for torches there on his last visit and he quickly assembled several, then struck sparks with his flint tool to fire one. Instantly the cave was flooded with an eerie light. The walls and floors and ceiling were carved from smooth, green stone that captured all light and flung back a ghostly glow.
When Iraj had recovered from his initial amazement he fired a torch of his own and peered about, noting the place where Safar sometimes made a fire when the weather was cold. Then he saw a mass of pentagrams and magical symbols and star signs - some old, some newer - inscribed on one wall and the floor.
"A wizard’s den," he said.
Safar nodded, not mentioning that the clumsier and newer symbols were his attempts to copy and learn from ancient masters. He’d yet to make magic with them, hampered as he was by youthful doubts. But in the back of his mind he knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the temptation to cast a real wizard’s spell.
Safar pointed to a series of faded red symbols etched on the floor. They led deeper into the cave, as if indicating a path. Iraj gaped as he recognized the symbols - the demon moon and comet of The Conqueror.
"Alisarrian came here?" he gasped.
"I don’t know," Safar said. "But I think some of those who knew him used this place."
He motioned Iraj forward and they followed the path through the several chambers that made up the cavern. One room had a stone shelf with ancient jars still sitting on it. Although some of the magical symbols identifying them were still plain, the contents of the jars had dried up long ago. Another room featured a small pile of weapons and armor so rusted they’d bonded together. Iraj examined them with much interest, commenting with authority on their purpose and former quality.
The final room was empty, save for brackets mounted on either side of the far wall. Safar lit two more torches and placed them in the brackets.
"This is what I brought you to see," he said, pointing to the broad space between the two torches.
Iraj peered where he pointed but at first saw nothing remarkable.
"Look closer," Safar said. "It takes a minute to see the first time you try. After that it’s easy because you know what you’re looking for."
Iraj’s eyes narrowed with effort and he turned his head this way and that, trying to make out what Safar was pointing at. Then the young potter smiled when he saw the stare turn into a look of wonder as the image between the mounted torch brackets leaped out.
A large painting had somehow been created just beneath the translucent surface of the stone. It was barely visible until the torches were lit - and only then if it were looked at a certain way.
The picture was of a tall, handsome warrior dressed in the archaic armor of a prince. He was fair skinned and had long light hair and fierce eyes as blue as the waters of Kyrania’s holy lake. The warrior carried a helmet under his right arm and about his brow was a simple gold band of kingly authority. He had a sword in his left hand, held high as if greeting or challenging another warrior. Safar had never decided which.
Above the warrior king was the symbol of the Demon Moon and ascending comet.
"Alisarrian," Iraj hissed.
"None other," Safar said.
Iraj laughed in loud delight and clapped the young potter on the back, thanking him profusely.
"A secret for a secret," he said. "Although I got the better bargain, my friend."
At that moment Safar realized that sometime between the moment they’d set out on the journey and their arrival, they had become friends. The knowledge made him feel somehow more adult. He’d never had a real friend before.
Iraj gazed at the portrait again. "I’ve studied everything about Alisarrian," he said, "but I’ve never seen such a likeness before. He looks every inch a conqueror. A man fated by the gods to rule a great empire."
He drew his sword, flourished it, then struck a pose like that in the painting - sword held high, head lifted and eyes far-seeing.
With a jolt, Safar noticed something for the first time. "You’re left-handed," he said, "just like Alisarrian."
Iraj nodded, face sober. "And tall and fair as well," he said. "But my eyes are dark. His eyes are blue... like yours."
Safar blushed. One of the many reasons he treasured this secret place was that here was another blue-eyed person like himself. It made him feel not only less strange, but superior - if only for a little while.
Iraj turned, holding his pose. "Tell me, Safar," he said quite seriously. "Do I look like a king?"
Safar studied him carefully. No vision followed, no great bolt from the skies, but realization boiled up from within. And he just suddenly... knew.
His mouth was dry and his voice came in a croak. "You will be king, Iraj," he said.
"What?" Iraj said, startled. "I was only-" he broke off. Then his voice became fierce, harsh.
"What are you telling me?"
"You will be as great a king as Alisarrian," Safar answered. "I see it..." he tapped his chest "... here."
Iraj’s sword hand fell, the blade scraping against the stone. "Don’t mock me," he warned.
"I’m not."
"You’re speaking of my greatest dream," he said. "To create a kingdom as grand as Alisarrian’s."
"I know this," Safar said.
"You don’t think I’m crazy?"
"Perhaps." The young potter shrugged. "You’ll probably have to be."
"You’ve seen this in one of your visions?" Iraj asked.
"Just before you came," Safar said. "I saw you... wearing a crown."
"Was I sitting on a white elephant?" Iraj asked, chin jutting forward in surprise.
"Yes," Safar said. "You were leading a great army. In my vision you beckoned me."
Iraj came closer, as if drawn by a magnet. "And I told you to sit beside me," he said. "And that you - Safar - were responsible for what I’d won."
"It seems we had the same vision," Safar said, numb.
"I’d believed it was just a dream," Iraj said. "I only thought it might be more than that when I met you and heard your name."
"Somehow," Safar said, "we got into each other’s minds."
Iraj shook his head. "It was your vision," he said. "Such things never happen to me."
"Well they do to me," Safar sighed.
"You act like it’s a curse."
"You don’t know how much of one," Safar answered.
"But... if what you say is true-"
"It is," Safar broke in. "I’m not often wrong."
Iraj put his arm around Safar’s shoulders, pulling him closer. "Then, when I am king," he said, "you will be my most trusted advisor. You will be Lord Timura from the moment I take my rightful place on the throne."
Then he withdrew his arm and stepped away, raising his sword with much ceremony. He gently tapped Safar on the head with the blade, saying, "I, King Iraj Protarus, do so decree."
His face shone with youthful zeal. Emotion made his voice waver and crack and his eyes welled with tears. There was a smear of dirt on one cheek and standing there in his rough boyish clothes attempting to strike an heroic figure, he might have even looked a bit ridiculous.
But Safar didn’t laugh.
* * *
After the impromptu ceremony Iraj investigated the chamber further, taking special note of all the magical symbols and jars.
"What do you suppose was the purpose of the cave?" he asked.
"My guess," Safar replied, "is that it was used by a Dreamcatcher to cast Alisarrian’s future."
Iraj grinned hugely, saying, "How fitting for me to have my own future told in this place. And by my own Dreamcatcher as well."
"I’m no Dreamcatcher," Safar protested. "I’m just an apprentice potter."
"A potter who has visions," Iraj laughed.
Oddly, Safar was stung by his comment. "Being a potter may not be as great as becoming a king," he said. "But it is an honorable craft. Some even say it’s an art - an art blessed by gods."
"I�
��m sorry if I said anything to upset you," Iraj said. "The only craftsmen I’ve ever known were sword and armor makers. But as you say, it’s well known that potters are blessed because they work with the same stuff the gods made us from. Did you ever think that could be why you have visions? Maybe you got a double portion of blessings when you were born."
"It could be," Safar said. "Although my father has never had anything like that happen to him."
"How do you know?" Iraj asked.
"From the way he acted when-" Safar stopped.
"What happened?" Iraj pressed. "What did he do?"
Safar shook my head, refusing to answer. "I’d rather not say."
"We shouldn’t have secrets between us," Iraj said. "Especially after what’s happened."
He’s right, Safar thought. But instead of confessing all, he became angry. "Nothing’s happened!" he snapped. "Just one stupid boy told another stupid boy a silly tale. That’s all."
Safar stormed away, ducking between the watery curtain at the cave’s mouth and clambering over the rocks until he reached the meadow where the goats were grazing.
Wisely, Iraj took his time in following. Safar raged about the meadow, kicking innocent rocks, tearing up offending plants by the roots and slapping at the llama when he approached and nuzzled him to see what was wrong. When he struck out at the animal it sprang back in shock. Safar had always treated him gently. It stared at him with accusing eyes, then turned and ambled off in that overly casual way llamas have when they don’t want to show they’ve been offended.
A goat got in its way and it charged the animal as if it were the greatest nuisance that had ever crossed its path. The goat dashed off, then revenged its humiliation by butting a smaller animal, which did the same and before Safar knew it the whole field was full of angry animals, butting each other and hopping about like fakir’s apprentices attempting their first walks across a bed of hot coals.
By the time Iraj showed up Safar was laughing so hard he’d forgotten the argument. Iraj didn’t bring the subject up and the two were soon engaged in the rough play and adventuring of boy goat herders alone in the mountains.
But it hung there between them, an uncomfortable presence.
* * *
When Badawi saw the wide caravan track leading into the mountains he fell from his donkey and dropped to his knees. He thumped his breast and shouted huzzahs to the heavens for saving his life.
That morning when Sarn sent him out to scout the way the horse dealer knew this day would be his last - unless he came up with a miracle. Badawi’s luck had seemed to desert him after he’d discovered the old Timura pot from Kyrania. They’d traveled over four hundred miles since then and hadn’t even found a goat path, much less a full blown caravan track leading over the Gods’ Divide.
As he sang praises to all the holy presences he could think of, Badawi suddenly spotted a mound of camel dung a few feet away. His heart leaped with greater joy and - still on his knees - he scrabbled over and broke the sun-crusted mound open, revealing a still-moist center.
Just then Sarn came riding up, his column of demon bandits not far behind. When Badawi saw him he scrambled to his feet. "Look, Master!" he shouted, displaying two big handfuls of dung as if they were a great treasure.
"What’s that in your hands, you filthy human?" Sarn growled.
"Camel dung, O Master," Badawi said, doing a little dance of joy, spilling the stuff on the ground. "The gods have guided your unworthy slave across a thousand miles of wilderness to find the very thing you have been commanded to seek."
"Have you gone mad, human?" Sarn said. "What do I want with camel dung?"
Badawi didn’t seem to hear. He’d seen still more of the droppings and he raced over to them, leaping from mound to mound like a fat toad, scooping up dung and throwing it into the air, crying, "Praise the gods!"
At that moment Giff came up. "What’s wrong with the human?" he asked.
"I think I’ve pushed him too hard," Sarn said. "He’s seems to have lost his senses from the strain." He sighed. "I suppose he’s of no use to us anymore. You can kill him if you like, Giff. Just be a good demon and don’t say ‘I told you so.’"
Giff grinned and started to draw his sword. But Badawi had overhead them. He hurtled over to the two demons, anger momentarily overcoming his fear.
He shouted, "Kill me? Why would you do such a stupid thing? I’ve found your route over the mountains, haven’t I?" Badawi pointed to a wide track winding up into the hills. "There lies Kyrania!" he shouted. "There lies the Valley Of The Clouds!"
Badawi became overly excited from his discovery. Excitement bordering on dangerous hysteria. "You’d never have discovered this on your own!" he cried. "Only I, Badawi, could manage such a thing.
"Furthermore, haven’t I also just shown you evidence that a caravan passed this way not more than three or four days ago?" He indicated the dung-strewn trail with a stained hand. "Or do you suppose all these animals were out wandering in the middle of nowhere looking for a comfortable place to shit?"
As soon as his outburst ended Badawi realized what he’d done. His nerve collapse and he fell to the ground. "Forgive me, Master," he begged. He beat his head against the ground and threw dust over his head. "This insignificant beetle of a slave has offended you, Master. Cut off a hand, if it pleases you. Pluck out this miserable tongue that wagged without thought when the brain became overly excited by discovery. Only spare me, Master. Spare me. And I shall serve you faithfully, content with crumbs for food and lashes for praise for so long as I live."
While Badawi begged, Giff kicked his mount forward to examine the signs.
"I hate to admit this," he said when the horse dealer was done and reduced to a weeping wreck, "but the human is right. A caravan did pass this way not long ago."
Badawi wiped his eyes and blew his nose on his sleeve. "You see, Master," he said, "I spoke the truth. Even Giff says so. And we both know how much he hates me. I deserve it, of course, although-"
"Shut up, human!" Giff said. "If you dare foul my name again by speaking it aloud I’ll cut off your head to make a pisspot!"
Badawi bowed, trembling. "Please, sir," he said. "I meant no harm."
Sarn ignored the exchange. He was noting the width and depth of the trail - more of a wide road, now that he really looked at it. A road worn into the very rock from centuries of use. He stared up at the snow-capped mountains, wondering how rich a prize the caravan would make.
As if reading his thoughts, Badawi said, "My guess is that it’s out of Caspan, Master." He pointed northwest, roughly indicating where Caspan would be. "The caravan master is no doubt heading across the Gods’ Divide to Walaria." He pointed south across the mountains. "It’s a journey of several thousand miles - going there and back, of course. As you no doubt have already supposed, Master, no merchant would travel so far if he weren’t expecting to make a handsome profit for his efforts. Seize that caravan, Master, and you will possess a fortune."
Giff had been listening closely, realizing all the horse dealer had said was true. Added to these glad tidings was another fact that delighted him even more.
He clacked his talons to catch Sarn’s attention and when he had it he said, quite simply, "Are we done with him now?"
Badawi gawped. "What do you mean, ‘are we done with him now?’"
The two demons ignored him. "Actually, I really don’t see any further use for him," Sarn said. "We’ve found what King Manacia wanted, plus what we wanted. And soon as we take the caravan we can return home."
"Done with who?" Badawi pressed. "Who do you mean, lords?"
"You promised I could kill him," Giff pointed out.
"Do you mean me?" Badawi said. Then he began to weep again. "Not me," he sobbed. "You can’t mean me!"
Sarn pulled a huge, gem encrusted ring from a taloned hand. He tossed it to Giff, who plucked it out of the air.
"I’m buying my promise back," Sarn said. "I’ve had to put up with him more than you. I had
to pretend I didn’t completely loathe him." He gnashed his fangs. "It’s not good for a demon’s health to keep things inside that way."
"I’ll do anything, Master," Badawi sobbed. "Anything."
Giff growled laughter and jammed the ring on his finger. "Consider the promise retrieved," he said.
Sarn kicked his mount closer to the sobbing Badawi. His steed’s snout curled back in disgust at the human’s smell. The beast snarled in fear, but Sarn steadied him by digging a heavy heel into his ribs.
"Look at me, human," the demon said.
"No, no, I won’t look!" Badawi cried, trying to scrabble away.
"I said look!" Sarn roared.
Badawi sagged to the ground as if the demon’s shout had been a blow. They he slowly looked up. Huge yellow eyes stared down at him. Sarn gestured and the horse dealer’s body suddenly stiffened. Badawi had no will of his own, but he still had thoughts and he still had fear.
"Don’t hurt me, Master," he shrieked.
"I don’t intend to, human," Sarn answered. "I wouldn’t foul my hands with your cowardly blood. No, you shall have the death you deserve, human. The death the gods must have decreed, or the idea would not have come so quickly into my head."
"Please, Master!" Badawi begged.
"Silence!" Sarn shouted.
Badawi was struck dumb.
"Take this knife," Sarn said, handing over an ornate dagger. Badawi’s fingers, acting against his will, stretched out and took the knife.
Sarn pointed to the ground. "Dig your grave there. Make it deep, so no unsuspecting jackal will poison itself with your rotted corpse. And make it wide to contain your bloat."
Like a clockwork machine Badawi came to a crouch and started digging.
"When you’re done, human," Sarn said, "climb into the grave and cut your guts out. I want you to do it slowly. To cause yourself as much pain as if I were doing the cutting."
He rode off laughing.
Badawi’s mind screamed, "No, no, I won’t do it!"
But he kept digging, gouging the hard ground with the knife, scooping up dirt and rock with bleeding fingers. He couldn’t slow down, much less stop. And he knew once he did stop he’d have no choice but to carry out the rest of Sarn’s sentence. As commanded, he’d take his own life - as slowly and painfully as a spirit possessed could manage.
