“You’ll be thinking I should have guessed the rest? But I can’t foresee my own paths. The sinking of Atlantis took me completely by surprise. But I dreamed where Rordray would settle at Great Hawk Bay, and I sailed there. Ultimately they guided me to the Burning City, where magic doesn’t work and a water elemental can’t survive.”
“And a wizard can’t either,” Whandall said, but Morth only shrugged.
CHAPTER
57
On the evening of the twenty-eighth day they camped in reach of a stream narrow enough to step across.
The water elemental had not shown itself since a waterfall followed Morth down Mount Carlem. “It prefers the sea, I think,” Morth said. “Its time within the mountain must have been uncomfortable.”
They had been approaching a range of hills for several days now. Whandall recognized this stretch. They would pass north of those hills. Another eight to twelve days, they’d be home. Now they were close enough to make out the spires that gave the place its name.
At night the Stone Needles glowed with manna, the wizard said, but only he could see it.
They moved at first light, Whandall driving.
Morth stirred. He scrabbled about in the wagon bed. Wrinkled around the eyes, white beard, gray-white hair, until he reached into the cold iron box. Then… well, nothing much changed. The talisman he’d made on Mount Carlem must be fading.
Around midmorning Lilac suddenly gasped, “Behemoth!” and pointed into the Stone Needles. The distant, misty heights ahead and right showed nothing.
Morth’s head popped into sunlight. “What are you looking for?”
“I saw him! Behemoth!” Plaintively Lilac said, “I never saw him before.”
Whitecap Mountain, strolling alongside the driving bench because it seemed to make the bison walk a little faster, was looking back down the road. “Wagonmaster, you may want to see this too.”
Whandall stood up on the bench to look over the hood.
Dots in their wake, seven or eight men scattered across the road were watching the bison-drawn wagon. Now two jogged off in opposite directions.
“Could be farmers going about their business,” Whitey said. “Could be bandits. A lone wagon makes a tempting target.”
They were too distant, too slow to be seen moving, but dust in the air showed that they were following the wagon.
“They’ll be a while catching up, won’t they?”
“Oh, yes. They’ll take their time. Sunset. We don’t have any food, Morth.”
They couldn’t hunt with bandits about.
Whitey asked, “You know something of bandits, don’t you, Whandall Feathersnake?”
“Yes, Whitecap Mountain. The first rule is, never separate the wagons or let them be separated.”
“Better skip to the second rule.”
Whandall stood to look back along the road. Men followed, far back and in no hurry. Those others who went jogging off would be bringing reinforcements or weapons or some stored magic, maybe a lurking spell.
“Never make half of a war,” he said. “What do you think? If a Puma wearing a backpack and a man hideously scarred by a mad wizard’s tattoo came loping back to meet them, would they run? Could we deal with them before anyone else comes? Kill them, frighten them, buy them off?”
Whitey said, “I think they can probably run almost as fast as you. If I run ahead, it’s just me and them. Together we wouldn’t catch them before nightfall, and if they’ve got friends they’d be right there to meet us. And if they sent friends ahead, who would defend the wagon?”
“All right. My third plan is, when they get close enough, I’ll take off my shirt.”
“Oh, that should scare them… you know, it might,” Whitey acknowledged. “They might have heard of you.”
Morth spoke. “Get me to the Stone Needles before they get to us, then leave the rest to me.”
“That’ll be tight,” Whandall said.
“Try.”
By noon the five had become a dozen. Whitecap Mountain drifted into the brush and was gone. Any bandits circling round might meet a Puma where it was least wanted. But a Puma could not attack a dozen farmers!
By midafternoon Stone Needles wasn’t ahead anymore, it was a sixth of a circle rightward. The band following the wagon numbered around twenty. They were close enough that Whandall could make out hoes and scythes and less identifiable farm implements.
There was time to discuss it. If they turned off the path now, despite the rougher ground, it would tip bandits to where they were going. If the bandits broke into a run, attacked short of the Stone Needles, arrived panting and breathless, and fought in daylight—bad practice, but they’d win.
Lilac was driving. Whandall, watching the bandits, heard her say, “I saw it again!”
Morth exclaimed, “So do I!” and Whandall’s head snapped around.
Behemoth, blurred by mist and distance, stood halfway up the Stone Needles. Mountains should have collapsed under it. Behemoth was even bigger than Whandall had seen it twenty-two years ago, all crags and angles, as if it had not fed well. Tusks to spear the moon. The shaggy hair that hung down everywhere was snow white, not piebald.
“That’s not the same Behemoth,” Whandall said. “There must be two. At least two.”
Morth said, “I don’t sense a god. Some lesser being.”
It stood steady on legs like buttes, studying the tiny wagon. The long, boneless arm of its nose lifted in greeting or acknowledgment.
Lilac turned the bison straight toward Behemoth.
Whandall watched her do it. She didn’t look at any of her companions, didn’t invite comment.
Whandall stood up on the driving bench. He stripped to the waist and stood for a time, visible above the wagon’s hood, in the near horizontal afternoon light.
The bandits were black shadows well beyond fighting range. Body language showed them in excited conversation, but they were still coming.
Whandall sat down. “I believe you have a family secret,” he said to Lilac. “And that’s fine, but does it threaten us?”
She said, “No.”
Whandall let his eyes half close. He could relax for just a little longer.
Lilac said, “But we might be safer if I could tell someone.”
“Speak.”
Nothing.
“Does Whitecap Mountain know?”
“He might. He’s of a different family. We haven’t spoken of it,” she said. “But I could tell my husband.”
Green Stone jumped as if stabbed. “If you have a husband, I—”
“No! No, Stone.”
Stone collected his tattered wits. “Should I be driving?”
Lilac shook her head violently.
“Green Stone, I believe I should speak for us now,” Whandall said. “Lilac, would you accept my son as your husband? As wagonmaster I can declare you mated.”
“Yes, subject to trivia related to dowry.”
“Before we deal with that… are you taking us where you want us?”
Lilac smiled. Dimples formed. She hadn’t looked back; she couldn’t know exactly how close the bandits were. She was steering straight up into the mountains. “I thought Behemoth might frighten them off. You tried that.”
Whandall stood to look back. “Well, they might be slowing down. You have a dowry?”
“It’s mostly in goods, of course. We’re not wealthy, Wagonmaster.” She described possessions worth the price of a pair of good bison and a one-horn. “If you were to add”—about three times as much—“we could buy a wagon with that.”
“Or I could buy a wagon for Green Stone. If you left him you’d still have enough to live on.”
“But I wouldn’t have a wagon,” she said coolly.
On the mountain above, Whandall had marked out an imaginary line. Cross that line and he would be where Behemoth could crush his tiny wagon in one step, but they hadn’t reached it yet.
“Our children and I wouldn’t have a wagon,” s
he mused.
He said, “Lilac, it’s not easy to set a price on your family secret until you describe it. As for the rest, do your other suitors have families so eager as mine? We’ll be at Road’s End in twelve days or so. You could ask around. The wagons won’t return from the Firewoods for another fifty, but you might get some sense of what offers await you. Come to me then.”
He didn’t say, Have you other suitors? He didn’t say, And we’ll see what the one-horns say.
But Lilac was glaring. “Does it strike you that a one-horn might improve my bargaining position?”
The truth was, it hadn’t. Whandall sensed how much Green Stone wanted to speak. He did not look at his son. “I can mate you under two oaths. One or the other will bind us all, depending on what the one-horns say.”
“Have we time for this?”
Big as he was, Behemoth shifted uneasily. The wagon had crossed that imaginary line and was within his range. Whandall stood up for a quick look back. The bandits had stopped in the road.
He asked, “Do you understand the term glamour? Appearance altered or enhanced by magic? Some women cast a glamour by instinct, with no training at all. Others are accused unjustly. It’s why lovers don’t bargain for themselves if they have family.”
“You know I’ve cast no glamour! After seventy days’ traveling? Look at me!”
Lilac was a good-looking woman, and no illusion, with the road’s dirt under her nails and in her hair. If they hadn’t all been so afraid of water these past forty days… curse! They’d all have been better traders!
“Suppose I just suggest,” he said, “that mammoths also can cast a glamour. Hugeness is theirs, but they cast an appearance even more vast. Dead, they lose that power. A live mammoth trapped in a pit might seem to be Behemoth struggling to free his foot—”
She stared straight ahead, her face set like stone.
“But a mammoth could still crush this wagon, and if he’s as close as he seems distant… Did you say something?”
“Where are the bandits?”
He stood and looked back. “Just watching.” And ahead. “So’s Behemoth. Lilac, I accept your terms.” After all, it wasn’t an argument he wanted to win. The Feathersnake wagons could not afford to look cheap! “I’ll buy you a wagon. Your family can buy the team. You are a fine trader.” Even though you haven’t fooled Feathersnake!
“Thank you.” She smiled: dimples again. Behind them, Green Stone whooped.
“But now I’d really like to extend the trade route. There are getting to be just too cursed many of us.”
Morth jumped down from the wagon. “We’re high enough.” He straightened and was taller than he had any right to be. Behemoth backed up a step, then cocked an ear to whatever Morth was bellowing in throaty Atlantean speech.
Then the god-beast’s arm uncoiled, reached out and over the wagon and down.
The farmer-bandits scattered, tripping over each other. Their piping screams rose up the mountain.
Morth was dancing on the hillside. “Yes! See that, you apprentice bandits! I’m a wizard again!” He saw his companions staring. He said, “I persuaded the beast that those rural Lordkin are bushes covered in cranberries.”
The vast rubbery arm rose up and coiled back across the sky holding… a bush torn up by its roots, or the illusion of one. Not some luckless sodbuster-turned-bandit. Those were scattered the width of the path and further, running west.
Behemoth fed itself, chewed, found nothing in its mouth, bellowed, and reached again after the running bandits.
Something called from far above: a distant trumpet plaintively played by a madman.
Behemoth turned to answer. Whandall slammed his hands over his ears. A madman’s trumpet screamed inside his head, the sound of the end of the world, or the end of all music. Behemoth turned away, toward the peak, and started to climb.
CHAPTER
58
There was water, but no stream was close enough to be a danger. It seemed a reasonable place to make camp.
Morth opened one of the talisman boxes and took something out, faster than Whandall could shield his eyes. “Used up,” he said. “I can’t even reenchant it.”
Lilac was looking too. The doll was crude, of barely human shape. It had a wild white beard and long white braided hair, blue beads for eyes, and something like Morth’s color.
Whandall asked, “Does it lose magic if too many people see it? Is that why you didn’t want to show it?”
Morth didn’t answer.
“Or were you just embarrassed?”
Morth laughed. “I’m no artisan.” He tossed it away. “I’ll make another tomorrow.”
Around sunset an animal stalked the camp half seen; and then Whitecap Mountain stood among them.
“You’re in time,” Whandall said, and among the company assembled, Whandall Feathersnake declared Green Stone Feathersnake mated to Lilac Puma. At this time he exercised his first wish, and Morth wove a blessing of good luck on the marriage.
Afterward he told Whandall, “You know the spell won’t work except in the most barren of places.”
“Then they’ll know where to go when things go wrong. If Willow and I had known that, that first year…”
Morning. Morth bounded from his blanket, lean and bony and agile as a contortionist, and howled in joy. Whitecap Mountain snapped awake with a hair-raising snarl. Green Stone and Lilac came running to see what the commotion was. They’d made their bed in a thicket last night.
“No problems,” Whandall shouted. “Just Morth—”
“Whandall! See this? Rosemary.” Morth pointed out the plant he meant.
Lilac shouted, “We’ll collect some, Father-found!” and they ran off.
Morth said, “I’m going up. Climb with me. Maybe we’ll find thyme too.”
Whandall looked up. The mountain seemed to rise forever, and this time there would be no magic to make it easier. “How high?”
“Not far. Manna’s blazing all over this mountain. I’ll be back before noon.” Morth was bouncing around like a happy ten-year-old. As a hiking mate he would be a pain.
“If you find thyme, tell us. I’ll pick what’s here.”
The wizard began running. Whandall shouted, “Hold up, Morth,” and pointed to a plant. It seemed to be growing everywhere, knee high and pallid white. “What’s this? How can a plant live if there’s no green to it?”
“I don’t know it.” Morth picked a leaf and nibbled the edge. “It’s nothing Rordray would want, but I taste magic.”
Whandall half filled a pack with rosemary. No need to keep spices in a talisman box. He didn’t doubt Green Stone and Lilac would collect more in their copious free time. Maybe he’d try it in his cooking. They’d have more than Rordray needed.
From time to time he ran across a stone spire. They were all over the place, growing thicker uphill.
Noon, and Morth wasn’t back.
This wasn’t the wild magic that drove Morth crazy. No gold around here. Was there? It didn’t look like places where he had seen gold.
Whandall began climbing. Morth might have gotten lost or stepped on.
The view was wonderful. The breath in his lungs was clean and rare. Stone pillars stood about him. This was heady stuff even for a man with no magical sense.
He shouted, “Morth!” and “Morth of Atlantis, are you lost?” but never with real concern. He didn’t think that anything here could hurt a wizard in his full power… except that any other magic thing would be in its full power. Behemoth, say, or last night’s trumpeter, which might be another Behemoth.
A thousand huge stone spires protruded through the ground. They didn’t look like natural formations. Here and there stood a stone ridge looking almost like the rib cage of something ages dead. Bone-white primitive-looking scrub grew everywhere. Sage and rosemary grew too. Whandall picked some sage.
Once he looked down and was shocked at how high he’d climbed. Yet the peak pulled him on.
The way gr
ew more difficult. Then insanely difficult. Whandall kept climbing. It just didn’t occur to him to turn back. The mountain grew more wonderful as it rose. Now he was finding steps in the most difficult places, stairs hacked at seeming random into the naked rock. No, not hacked: rock had flowed.
A man was watching him from high above.
The sun had burned him black… like Morth on the mountain, Whandall thought, though his beard and hair were wild gold and he wasn’t wearing any clothes at all. The Stone Needles Man watched in silence, and Whandall wondered what he would sound like.
“Thyme,” he called up. “There’s a plant called thyme, but I don’t know what it looks like.”
“Who are you?” The Stone Needles Man sounded raspy and unpracticed, a voice unused for a long time.
Whandall started to tell him. His mere name didn’t seem adequate, so he told more; but wherever he tried to start his story, something earlier was needed—Morth, the Hemp Road, the caravan, the Firewoods—until he was babbling about kinless woodsmen in the redwoods around Tep’s Town. He climbed as he spoke, and that had him gasping. The man watched and listened.
Even close, Whandall couldn’t guess his age, wasn’t even sure he was human. Something odd about his nose, or his scowl. Maybe he was were.
“Thyme,” the old man said, “there,” and pointed with his nose. “All through that patch of dragon nip.”
“That’s the white stuff?” Whandall had to go back down by a little to reach it.
“Um. I could call it mammoth nip; they like it too. Thyme is grayish green stuff, grows low to the ground. Yes, that. Rub a leaf in your fingers and sniff. Never forget that smell.”
“Nice.”
“I used it in the stew. Come eat.” The old man started to climb higher yet. He turned once and said, “I want your lunch.”
“Agreed.”
“Um. I get tired of goat. Keep changing the spices—it’s still goat. What’ve you got?”
“Nothing.”
The man turned on him a look of baffled rage. Whandall felt ashamed. “I didn’t know I was going to keep climbing,” he said, and that led him to wonder, Where do they think I went? He should do something about that. The wagon was a fantastic distance below him, and the sun was halfway down the sky.
The Burning City Page 38
