by Allan Cole
A mad thought came to him. It was all because of a camel. That’s when his luck first left him. When he fell in love with a camel and stole for his own.
And he thought, but she was such a pretty animal, my Sava. And white, so white...
As white as the snows on the Gods’ Divide.
* * *
Iraj returned to the cave several times over the next few days. He went alone, never announcing his intentions when he left or speaking about it when he returned. Although he never said what he did there, each time he emerged he seemed to stand taller, his bearing more confident and his eyes more commanding.
Safar only returned once and he also went alone. Late one night he relived the nightmare of the dancers who died in the volcanic eruption. After he calmed himself and his mind became clear he remembered something he’d found in the cave several visits ago. After checking that Iraj was asleep he went into the cave to the room with the stone shelf and old jars. In one corner was a shattered pot that had caught his interest because of all the ancient magical symbols painted on it. He’d laid out the shards on the floor in a vague attempt at reconstruction.
Safar held the torch high to get a closer look at the nearly completed puzzle. This time his interest wasn’t drawn so much to the symbols, but to what the pot once represented. Which was a round jar shaped like the world with a small opening that had once held a stopper. The major features of the world had been displayed on the jar, consisting mostly of the oceans and the four turtle gods that bore the lands. Here, in the Middle Sea, was Esmir - which in the ancient tongues meant simply the land, or the earth. To the north was Aroborus, the place of the forests. To the south was Raptor, the land of the birds. Last of all was Hadin, land of the fires. Safar studied this arrangement in greater detail, remaking the pot in his mind. On the globe Hadin was on the other side of the world - directly opposite Esmir.
He bent to get a closer look at the large piece of shard that contained Hadin, actually a huge chain of islands rather than a single land mass. The largest island had a picture of a cone-shaped mountain with a monster’s face. The monster was breathing fire. The memory of this piece of painted pottery was what had drawn Safar into the cave. He wondered now if the large island in Hadin was the place he’d seen in his vision. If vision it was.
He felt ignorant. He’d always prided himself on his mind, but now all his knowledge of the world and what made it seemed so insignificant he might as well have been an insect contemplating the heavens. He hungered to know more, which made him sad because he realized he’d reached the end of what Gubadan could teach him. And as Safar looked at the shattered glove it occurred to him that much of what he’d learned might be in error, or based on Gubadan’s stirring myths. Even the old priest admitted, for instance, that there were no turtle gods carrying the continents. The lands floated on the oceans without assistance, he said. The turtle gods were symbols, not science, he said. Although he cautioned symbols sometimes hid inner meanings that might make science.
Safar determined the next time he traveled Walaria with his father he’d find books to broaden his knowledge -although he didn’t have the faintest idea what types of books those might be. To start with, however, he could look for something that could tell him about the four continents. Particularly Hadin.
He reached for the shard containing Hadin and as soon as his fingers touched it his body tingled all over with that warm, honeyed sensation he’d felt the night when the fiery particles had rained from the sky. The feeling quickly vanished and all was normal again. He shook himself, wondering what had happened. He stared hard at the pot shard with its fiery mountain. No answer came. After a time he gave up and tucked the shard away into his shot pouch to be examined later.
He returned to the campsite and his blankets. He slept and this time he didn’t dream.
Over the next few days he became uncomfortable in the grotto. Although he didn’t show it, there was a buzz of magic and danger in the air that disturbed him. Finally he made an excuse for the two of them to get away for awhile. He told Iraj they needed to find meat for their cooking pot. Always eager for a hunt, Iraj agreed.
Leaving the goats and llama to graze, they wandered along snow-patched trails for hours. Safar felled a few mountain grouse with his sling and Iraj shot a hare with his bow. Safar teased him because he’d brought heavy arrows better suited for bear than rabbits and the creature was so torn up by the missile it was useless.
Iraj pretended to be hurt. "I just saved our lives, you ingrate. Didn’t you see that mean look in its eyes? A man-eater if I ever saw one!"
"Eeek!" Safar shrieked. "A man-eating hare! Run! Run!"
And they both bounded down the path as if a tiger were after them.
An hour or so later they came to a promontory that overlooked the main caravan route. Passage through the Bride and Six Maids wasn’t easy. It consisted of a complicated series of trails and switchbacks winding up from the desert to the first pass. The pass led to a rickety bridge - built, some claimed, by Alisarrian’s engineers - that crossed to the next mountain. More passes and bridges joined into the final route, which traveled over the broad summit of the Sixth Maid, then dipped to catch the trail across the Bride herself and then down into Kyrania and beyond.
Safar had spent many an hour perched on that promontory watching the caravans. At the height of the season, when as many a dozen might be traveling, it was a wondrous sight. He’d once spotted four caravans moving along four different peaks at the same time. He’d never seen an ocean, but to Safar the caravans looked like a small fleet of ships sailing over a sea of clouds and snowdrifts. The Kyranians called the region the High Caravans, for it was said that in all the world there were no higher mountains that traders crossed.
As the two young men stood there that day gazing out at the snow-covered peaks, Safar felt sudden joy when he spotted a caravan, the first of the spring, moving down toward the Bride’s Pass. He pointed it out to Iraj, who hadn’t been in the mountains long enough to distinguish distant objects easily. As he marveled at it they could both hear the sound of jangling bells echoing strangely in the cold, dry air. Soon they could make out the small figures of people, some on foot, some mounted on horseback - following the heavily-laden llamas and camels that padded over the snow. A few large ox-drawn wagons completed the caravan.
"All the places they must have been," Iraj said dreamily, "and all the places they’ve yet to see. The very sound of those bells makes you want to join them, doesn’t it Safar?"
"Why should it?" Safar said, a little sharply. "I’m happy here. Why would I want to live among strangers?"
Iraj gave him an odd look. "You have visions," he said, "but you don’t dream?"
"Not of things like that," Safar answered. "I’m perfectly happy where I am. Oh, I’ve visited the city once or twice. My father sometimes goes to Walaria to sell his best pots. But whenever I went with him I was always anxious to get back as quickly as I could."
Iraj waved his hand at the caravan and the vista beyond. "But that’s the real world out there, Safar, " he said. "Where great men determine events. And there are all sorts of mysterious people and things to see. Your valley is beautiful, I admit. But nothing happens here, or will ever happen. Don’t you feel left out?"
"Never," Safar declared. "I have all I want here. And all I shall ever want."
Iraj shrugged, then said, "Let’s go down to meet them. I’ve never talked to a caravan master before."
There was plenty of time left in the day so Safar had no reason to deny him. Also, as every Kyranian child knew, the first to meet a caravan were always rewarded with treats and small gifts. Safar’s eyes swept the terrain, picking out a route that would intersect with the travelers at the edge of the Bride’s Pass. He pointed the way and the two young men charged down to meet the caravan.
They were skirting a jumble of rock when motion caught Safar’s eye. He grabbed Iraj’s arm to stop him and looked closer.
A line of figures
moved swiftly out of a ravine toward the caravan. They were traveling in a wide loop that kept cover between them and the caravan and Safar knew they were doing this purposely so they wouldn’t be seen.
At first he thought they were bandits. He cupped his eyes so he could see better and the lead group jumped into view so clearly and so frighteningly that he cried out.
"What is it?" Iraj asked. He was peering at the figures, still not able to make them out.
"Demons!" Safar shouted. "They’re going to attack the caravan!"
* * *
Chapter Five
A Wizard Is Born
As Giff watched the caravan crawl along the snowy pass, camel bells chiming, oxen grunting, horses blowing steamy blasts into the chill air, a sudden feeling of foreboding descended on him. He glanced at the other nine mounted demons waiting with him in ambush. They were tense, but professionally so, as they made last-minute inspections and adjustments to their weapons and gear. They were the best of Sarn’s fiends with scores of successful raids to their credit.
Giff was not reassured.
He couldn’t put a talon on it but it seemed to him that something wasn’t quite right. He thought, I should have killed the human myself. It had been bad luck to let Sarn do it. He should have insisted on his rights. But then he thought, don’t be so superstitious. You’ve always made your own luck. Besides, what could go wrong?
He studied the mounted soldiers guarding the pack animals and covered wagons that made up the caravan. The humans were well-armed and seemed skilled enough to cause alarm but this wasn’t the source of Giff’s worry. Sarn had sent their best scout into the caravan’s encampment the night before to steal small items from each of the sleeping human soldiers. Sarn had used those items to make a spell that would confuse the soldiers and turn them into cowards when attacked.
The only defender who wouldn’t be affected was the caravan master, a big brawny human Giff would dislike to meet in anything but an unequal fight. He slept apart from his men in a pavilion the scout couldn’t approach without being discovered. Even so, Giff thought, when the attack came the caravan master would be quickly overwhelmed without his soldiers to support him.
The plan was simple enough: a double ambush. Giff and a small force would attack the caravan first. It would be a fierce, no mercy attack, designed to frighten the humans as much as to harm them. "Be as bloody and horrific as you can," Sarn had said. "Soften them well for me."
At that point Sarn, striking from another vantage point, would hit full force. The entire action shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, Giff thought. Yes, it was a good plan. An artful plan that seemed to guarantee success. But why was it he still felt so uneasy?
As if he were being watched himself.
* * *
"They can’t be demons," Iraj said. "You must be mistaken. It’s forbidden for them to be here."
"Well, I guess nobody told them!" Safar snapped. "Look for yourself." He pointed at the monstrous figures hiding in ambush below. "What else could they be?"
Dazed, Iraj aped Safar, funneling his hands so he could see more clearly. His head jolted back as the full realization sunk in. Then he swiveled, taking in more of the scene.
"Hells!" he said. "You’re right. And look! There’s more! A second group - moving through that ravine."
Safar spotted them immediately. It was a much larger group than the first - possibly thirty demons or more. He watched them snake through a ravine with high, snow-packed walls. The ravine narrowed at the mouth and Safar saw the leader pull in his mount and signal the others to stop. The group paused there to reform its lines.
"I think I see what they’re going to do," Iraj said. His tone was oddly casual as if he were commenting on an interesting tactic in a military text. "The first bunch will jump the caravan, while the others hold back. Then when the caravan soldiers are fully committed the rest will charge out of the ravine and roll them up."
Iraj dropped his hands. "It’s a good trick," he said. "I’ll have to remember it."
* * *
Sarn made certain his demons were ready, deploying them in short-winged cavalry ranks so the ravine’s narrow mouth wouldn’t diminish the force of his attack. Giff’s position was opposite the ravine in a clump of frozen boulders. When the caravan moved between them Giff would strike first and then, when the panicked soldiers turned their backs to confront him, Sarn would leap out and close the pincer’s jaws.
The bandit chief unlimbered his sword and made a few practice passes in the air. His blood sang as his demon heart pumped battle lust into his veins. In a few moments all the riches his scouts had told him were on the caravan would be his. Then he’d speed up the mountain, following the pass to Kyrania. He doubted it would difficult to eliminate everyone in such a remote village. Sarn surmised that the humans in Kyrania might be expecting the caravan. Some could even be on their way now to meet it, which meant he might not have enough time to wipe all traces of his demonly presence from the snows. King Manacia had commanded that no witnesses be left behind. So Sarn had to make it appear that bandits - human bandits - had hit the caravan. He’d do the same with Kyrania, perhaps even picking up a bit more booty in the process. Then he and his fiends could make their way home with nothing at their backs to worry them.
Sarn was already imagining the greeting awaiting him on his return. A hero laden with so much loot that other bandit clans would clamor to join him. Better still, the king himself would be in his debt. Sarn was by now convinced King Manacia was planning an invasion of the human lands. An invasion this mission had just proved was possible.
He was wondering if he ought to press the king for some sort of noble-sounding title when a sudden uncomfortable thought occurred to him. Wasn’t it Giff who’d asked if perhaps Manacia had lied about the shield he’d conjured to protect them from the curse of the Forbidden Desert? What if Sarn had been too quick to dismiss Giff’s supposition? After this mission Sarn would be a much more important demon than before. For daring the Forbidden Desert and striking out at the hated humans he’d be a fiend to be reckoned with. And the king hadn’t held his throne so long by being stupid, or by allowing potential rivals to live. He might consider Sarn as one of those rivals. In fact, King Manacia, who was a mighty wizard, might have foreseen such a possibility in his castings. In which case he’d want Sarn to be weakened from the start. One way to accomplish that would be to lie about the potency of his shield. Sarn might have done the same himself if he were in Manacia’s place.
Another thing: what if the curse didn’t kill right away? What if it allowed him to live long enough to return home with the information the king wanted? And afterwards he’d die a horrible, lingering death, made worse by the knowledge Manacia had never intended to reward him for his faithful service. It was not unlike the way Sarn had treated the human, Badawi. For the first time he felt a touch of empathy for the horse dealer.
Then he thought, you’re being a fool, Sarn. Pre-battle jitters, that’s all. If royal betrayal had been in the wind he would have sniffed it out at the start. The bandit chief considered himself a most devious demon who could show even a king a trick or two about the art of treachery.
Nerves steadied, all self-doubt conquered, Sarn peered out and saw the caravan nearing the mouth of the ravine.
The attack was about to begin.
His yellow eyes glowed in anticipation.
* * *
Safar watched the smaller group of demons brace for the charge. His mind was numb, his limbs oddly heavy and when he spoke his voice came in a croak.
"What will we do?"
There nothing numb about Iraj. The tragedy about to unfold below seemed to have the opposite effect, charging him with an inner fire.
"Warn the caravan," Iraj said, eyes dancing, "What else?"
Before Safar could fully register the answer, Iraj burst out of their hiding place and bounded down the hill. His action swept away all of Safar’s caution. Hot blood boiled over and without a
second’s hesitation he leaped forward to follow.
But as he scrambled down the steep hillside in Iraj’s wake he thought, "My father’s going to kill me."
It was a small caravan, spread out and weary from hard travel. As Safar drew closer he heard the harsh voice of the caravan master urging his men on.
"Your fathers were brainless curs," he was shouting. "Your mothers were lazy mongrel bitches. Come on, you dogs! Listen to Coralean! Only one more day’s travel to Kyrania, I tell you. Then you can bite your fleas and lick your hairless balls all you like."
Safar heard a camel bawl and a driver curse its devil’s nature. He also thought he heard the high-pitched voices of angry women. That was impossible, he thought. Women rarely traveled with the caravans.
He strained his aching lungs for air and in a burst of speed caught up to Iraj. They reached the caravan just as it crossed the mouth of the ravine. Three outriders spotted them first. Safar and Iraj raced toward the soldiers.
"Ambush!" Iraj shouted. "Ambush!"
The soldiers were slow to react. Their eyes were dull, their mouths gaping holes in frosted beards. But when Safar and Iraj ran up they suddenly came to life, drawing their horses back in fear. Safar realized with a shock they thought he and Iraj were the threat.
Safar desperately grasped the reins of the nearest horse. "Demons!" he screamed into the face of a dull-faced soldier. "Over there!"
He turned to point and saw monstrous figures storm out of the mist, sweeping in to crowd the caravan defenders closer to the ravine where the main force waited. Safar heard a demon war cry for the first time - a piercing, marrow-freezing ululation.
A series of images jumped out at him. He saw swords and axes raised high in taloned paws. Crossbows lifting to aim. Black bolts taking flight.
