A mountain of water rolled into the Black Pit, absorbed the pond water, and grew.
The tar burst into flame.
Whandall barely felt his hair and eyebrows singed to ash. For an instant that seemed to last forever, he perceived what Yangin-Atep perceived….
CHAPTER
79
Yangin-Atep, Loki, Prometheus, Moloch, Coyote, the hearth fires of the Indo-European tribes, uncountable fire gods were one and many. He, she, they had the aspect/powers of bilocation and shared minds. Pleasure or pain seeped from lands where a lord of fire and mischief might be worshipped or tortured.
Every cook fire was a nerve ending for Yangin-Atep. Whandall could feel the god’s shape, the terrible freezing wound at his heart, the numb places where parts of the city were abandoned and no fires were lit, the long, trailing tail through the Firewoods. He felt sensation where Lord and Lordkin armies had passed, the path of Whandall’s escape and return.
Yangin-Atep stirred rarely. It was only his attention that moved… but where Yangin-Atep’s attention fell, things happened. Fires went out when Yangin-Atep took their energy. He put out forest fires. Cook fires he allowed to burn. If he snuffed them too early, they were of no use.
Fires indoors went out. Yangin-Atep in Whandall’s mind remembered why. An ancient chief had bargained with Yangin-Atep, had woven a spell to prevent his nomad people from settling in houses.
Cook fires gave him his life.
But there was not enough magic even in fire. Every several years, Yangin-Atep fell into deathlike sleep. Then fires raged unchecked, even indoors. Yangin-Atep’s famine-madness would fall on receptive worshippers, and people called that the Burning. In his coma Yangin-Atep might not respond to the Burning for days, yet his chosen would feel the easing of his hunger, his growing strength. Their own grief was eased by the fires.
When Yangin-Atep revived it was all in a surge. He took fire where it was hottest, and though some fools might continue to throw torches, the Burning was over.
But now the trickle of life in Yangin-Atep was trickling away, and a line of bleeding emptiness crawled toward him from the sea. It was water, water come to challenge him. The manna that kept a water elemental alive was the life of Yangin-Atep.
The fire god’s attention moved across the Burning City and centered on the Black Pit.
Tar and oil.
The pond water that covered the Black Pit had been rolled up into the greater mass of the sprite. Tar lay naked and exposed. Yangin-Atep’s attention set it afire. Flames cradled the sprite. The sprite danced like a bead of water on a skillet, trying to withdraw from the fire.
Ancient dead animals played in the flames. Sabertooth cats pawed at the air, swatting at the water above them. Great flaming birds circled. A mastodon formed, then grew until it loomed above the sprite. Behemoth stamped down with both forefeet… and was gone, and the sprite was unharmed.
The child Whandall had seen these ghosts as holes in fog. Now they were flame… but Whandall’s perception saw more. Yangin-Atep was summoning them to absorb their manna. The fire god was eating the ghosts.
Morth lay limp on the far side of the Pit. Whandall made his way around the fence toward Morth, his haft and blade forgotten in his hands. It was a long way around. He could barely see, hear, feel, with the fire god’s senses raging in his head.
The elemental knew what it wanted, and Yangin-Atep felt it too. Yangin-Atep raised fire to block the elemental from its prey, from Morth of Atlantis. The elemental countered with a blast of wild magic, gold magic, nearly its last. If Whandall couldn’t feel magic, the fire god could. Yangin-Atep’s attention snuffed out, then snapped back.
And Morth, half dead beside the Black Pit fence, snapped awake and strong, awash in manna. He spilled his pack, stripped to the waist, and smeared his arms and chest with white paint, all in great haste. He faced the Pit and his arms began to wave.
To Whandall it looked like he was conducting music or a dance. Indeed, fire-beasts danced in response, even as they winked out one by one.
The war was half seen, half felt, half hidden. Whandall wasn’t perceiving it all. In flashes of clarity he made his way to Morth.
Morth’s back was turned. “Just stay clear,” he said without turning around. Gold rings glittered on every finger.
“Can’t I do something?”
“Clear!” Morth danced on.
Then Whandall’s only senses were Yangin-Atep’s.
Water wanted to cool fire. Fire wanted to burn water. Yangin-Atep wrapped the elemental like an eggcup around an egg. Water sizzled. Fire dimmed. Both were dying.
Some power remained in the Black Pit to feed the ghosts of the ancient animals, and that power was being used now. Yangin-Atep reached out for more and was blocked at the fence. But there was enough.
The sprite died in a blast of live steam.
Whandall covered his face with his arms and fell to the tarry ground. Heat scalded his hands. Morth’s arms never missed a beat, but Whandall heard his howl.
Yangin-Atep hunted. If there had been a trace of the water elemental, Yangin-Atep would have eaten the manna in it. But the water thing was dead, myth, gone. Yangin-Atep reached farther.
There was nothing outside the Black Pit.
Now Whandall felt claustrophobic terror, a sudden shrinkage. From occupying the valley’s vastness, enclosed by forest and sea, fed by cook fires, Yangin-Atep was numb and paraplegic beyond the border of the Black Pit. Some enemy was weaving—had woven—a wall!
Yangin-Atep twitched to the rhythm of the spell and sought a new enemy, and found him too late. Whandall recognized Morth of Atlantis, his dancing arms and fingers, but the wall was complete and Morth was outside, untouchable. Manna streamed thinly from the stars, but Yangin-Atep couldn’t feel it. Morth had woven a lid to the box.
Yangin-Atep pushed against it. Whandall heard Morth’s bellow of agony, dimly, but he felt the fire god’s agony. The magical barrier was pitifully thin, but it was water magic.
Yangin-Atep hunted with the ferocity of a Lordkin, and found… a Lordkin.
Then Whandall and Yangin-Atep were two aspects of the fire god. The fire god reached down and picked up his haft and Lordkin blade.
Whandall Feathersnake let it fall.
Yangin-Atep stooped to pick up the spear, stooped and reached, bent his knees and reached, desperate to make this body move. Move! Why wouldn’t the Lordkin move?
Morth danced like a marionette, his back turned. Whandall Feathersnake stood at peace with himself and the god raging in his mind. Whandall was familiar with the hard sell. Every merchant in the world thinks he can make you buy, but he can’t. Listen, nod, enjoy the entertainment. Offer tea. At the right price, buy.
Whandall felt the fire fill him, running down his arms. Little flames licked his fingernails. Fire lit his mind. The Toronexti! We’ll burn them out! Houses, gatehouse, forest paths, men, we’ll burn them all! Take the children hostage to hold the women. Next, the Bull Pizzles—
What you offer has value, of course, but how can I risk so much? If I lose, my people starve, my family, all who trust Feathersnake. No, your price is too high.
Flame licked his fingertips. Rage!
Frivolously high. Fire, you can’t be serious.
Burn!
Control. Relax. Stand. Smile. Breathe.
There was no manna left. Yangin-Atep faded to a dying spark.
Not here on the surface, but deep down beneath the tar where no wizard could ever have been, the last trace of the fire god found a last spark of manna. The fire god sank, faded, and was myth.
Yangin-Atep was myth.
Whandall’s face hurt. Clothing had covered the rest of him, but his hands and the left side of his face and scalp were hot with pain. His hand found no eyebrows, no lashes, no hair on that side.
Morth was a stick figure, bald as an egg. Clothing charred black across the front of him, and his arms waved, conducting unseen musicians. Whandall dared not interfere. Th
ere was no trace of ancient animal ghosts now, and every fire was out.
Morth lowered his arms, bowed, and fell on his face.
Whandall rolled him over. Morth’s eyes were half open, seeing nothing.
Whandall said, “The sprite is dead, Morth.”
Morth sucked air. Alive. “Can’t know that.”
“Morth, I strangled it myself and ate every trace of it. It’s dead. Excuse me, did I say? I was being Yangin-Atep.”
“Feathersnake Inn.”
“All gods welcome. I want no more of it, Morth.”
“Won’t happen again. What’s left of Yangin-Atep, I wove deep into the tar. Whatever the fire god has been doing to this town, it’s over. Ten thousand years, maybe more, maybe forever, Yangin-Atep sleeps below the tar. Maybe you can make something of that. I’m burned. Get me to the sea, for the manna. Wash me with salt water. Wait. You sure the sprite is—”
“Dead.”
“Good.”
PART FIVE
Feathersnake
CHAPTER
80
Sandry and Burning Tower clattered up, horses lathered. Heroul was just behind him with Green Stone.
“Father!” Burning Tower shouted.
“I’m all right.”
His children began to inspect him. They looked to be caught between horror and laughter. Whandall said, “It’s Morth who needs help. Sandry, can you get him to the sea?”
“He doesn’t look strong enough to ride in a chariot,” Sandry said.
“I’ll get a wagon,” Heroul said. “Coming?” he asked Green Stone.
“See to it,” Whandall said. “Get Morth into the water.”
“I will,” Heroul shouted. He wheeled away and lashed the horses, dashing across the uneven ground.
“We’ll stay with you,” Whandall said.
Burning Tower knelt beside the aged wizard.
“Stay there,” Morth said. “Some say there’s magic in a young girl’s smile. Whandall! We did it!”
Heroul was back with a kinless in Quintana colors driving a four-horse wagon. Whandall and Green Stone lifted the wizard into the wagon and laid him on the blankets that filled it.
Whandall demanded, “Morth, how long?”
Morth smiled with no teeth. “Get me into the sea,” Morth said distinctly. “The sea is magical everywhere. Quick enough, I might live.”
The wagon moved away with Heroul’s chariot as escort.
“Shouldn’t we go with him?” Burning Tower asked.
“He’s in good hands,” Whandall said. “I’m more worried about the caravan now. Sandry, can this thing carry three?”
“If one is as light as she is,” he said.
“I can ride the wagon tongue,” Burning Tower said. “See!”
“Blazes—Burning Tower, that isn’t safe,” Sandry said.
“Safer than a tightrope. You just drive.”
It was the final-day sale for the caravan. Pitchmen were shouting it. “Last day. Everything goes! Never be lower prices.”
Burning Tower leaped from the chariot before it stopped. She raced to the sign outside Whandall Feathersnake’s market pitch, snatched up a charcoal from the fire, and began to scrawl huge black letters across the neatly scribed sign. Nothing Was Seen came out of the nest to stare as if he could read.
“Lurk, are you all right?”
The bandit boy looked nearly healed but still swollen in spots. “Feather-snake, they’re working me like a kinless.” He must have learned that from a customer. See, I speak your language! “You look half fried, and where’s the wizard? Tell me a story!”
“Later. Back to work.” Sandry was half strangling on his own laughter. Whandall had never seen him do that. He demanded, “What does it say?”
Sandry looked at Whandall. It was clear what he was seeing: a tattooed man with every hair of his body singed off, burn spots and blisters on his arms and hands and on one cheek. Sandry struggled with laughter and lost. “Sir, it says FIRE SALE.”
“I should never have let her mother teach her to read,” Whandall growled. “I want a new shirt. Then let’s see if I can sell something.”
The sale was a roaring success, kinless and Lordkin alike come to see what the traders from Outside had brought, what they could buy.
Heroul and Green Stone returned in late afternoon. Whandall was selling a carpet out of his own travel nest. He’d run out of stock early. Two Lordsmen were paying a manweight of tar and some jewelry; the Lord waited silent behind them. Whandall asked, “Is the wizard dead?”
“Morth is well,” Green Stone said.
Whandall looked around. “You left him alone?” Abandoning an ally was much different from leaving one’s dead.
“He’s not alone.” Though it was half killing them, they both waited for Whandall to complete the sale. Then Green Stone babbled, “We ran straight to Good Hand Harbor. Some Water Devil gatherers would have stopped a wagon, but not Heroul’s chariot. They followed us. There’s a boat bigger than all the boats we saw at Lion’s, and there were seamen all about. But there’s a beach. We didn’t want to move him, so we ran the wagon right down into the water. I got in and held Morth’s head up.
“There were seamen and Water Devils all wanting our story. They saw the same thing we did. Morth lay there looking drowned, grinning with no teeth and bragging in a guttural whisper about what we’d done. He’s got deep burns, meat burns, but some blisters healed while we watched. He grew some hair, just stubble in patches where he was burned least, but it’s red stubble. He grew teeth. He started to laugh.”
Heroul said, “Last I saw him, he was up to his neck in sea water asking the crew for food. Said he could pay. Wants to know if the ship needs a wizard. A crewman was going for the captain.”
“A wizard in his element,” Whandall mused. “Did he say when he was coming back?”
“Father, he won’t even try to stand up,” Green Stone said. “He said he can’t leave the sea, not for weeks.”
“We can’t stay weeks!”
“Father, he’s done his part!” Green Stone said.
“You look worried,” Burning Tower said.
“Oh, Stones is right, Blazes, but now we have to fight our way out past the Toronexti without a wizard!”
“Oh. But we’ve got Sandry.”
“We’ll escort you out,” Sandry said.
Burning Tower caught his tone. “Sandry? You won’t fight?”
“We can defend ourselves if they attack us. Maybe they’re that stupid.”
“And maybe that will be enough,” Whandall said.
Green Stone was looking out at the crowd. “Good business,” he said.
“Yes, but Stones, none of them seem to know,” Burning Tower said. “Yangin-Atep’s gone mythical and they don’t know!”
“Morth said it would take a while,” Green Stone said. “Manna is low, and there aren’t any wizards. They’ve been gone for centuries. How will anyone know magic works here?” He rubbed his hands together. “Father. We get out. We join up with Saber Tooth and come back with Clever Squirrel and every shaman we can hire! Think what they’ll pay here just for rain! We’ll clean up.”
“You’re thinking like Saber Tooth,” Burning Tower told her brother.
“About time,” Whandall said.
Peacegiven Square buzzed like a hive, and trade was brisk. A few Lordkin were to be expected, and Whandall had counted twenty or so. They were looking, not gathering much. The merchants must have educated them early… but Whandall was keeping his eye on a cluster of Lordkin, seeing them as trouble, wondering when they’d split up and begin gathering.
Serpent’s Walk would have filtered in, not come in a bunch. Others had noticed. Merchants and customers were all beginning to bristle.
Whandall wondered if it might make sense to pay off the Toronexti. Get out, then return in two weeks with weapons and magic… and plant poison rubbed on sever blades…
No. Too late in the year. After the tax men stripped
them, they wouldn’t have wealth to show outside. They wouldn’t get enough fighting men to bring back, and winning a few battles wouldn’t help if they had to stay the winter. No.
The knot of a dozen Lordkin he’d been watching had crossed the square to Hammer Miller’s wagon. They began gathering goods. When Hammer came out to collect, one backhanded him with a laugh.
“Hey, harpy!”
The whole square glittered for a moment. The cry of “Hey, harpy!” rose in a chorus. Whandall jumped the counter, knife in hand.
He was surprised to see Sandry and Heroul wheel their chariots around and leave the fight, rolling at top speed toward the Lordsmen camp. But the rest of the action was familiar.
Kinless took cover.
Most of the Lordkin decided it wasn’t their business and took cover too. A few, enraged at having their fun interrupted, readied to fight. But the harpies were behaving like Wolverines: clustered back to back in the open square, giving themselves room to fight, allowing nobody near.
Caravaners armed themselves and moved toward the gatherers at a trot. The flurry of slingshot missiles surprised the harpies. They didn’t notice what else was going on among the Lordsmen. Whandall barely saw it himself, but, running to test his knifework against Tep’s Town harpies, he slowed.
Waterman had been watching. As the two chariots neared the camp, they were joined by three more.
“Riders mount up!” Waterman shouted.
Men ran from their tents to take places beside the charioteers. “Go get ’em! Sir!” Waterman shouted.
Sandry waved toward the knot of harpies. “At a walk! At a trot!”
He took the long spear in his right hand. The other drivers were doing the same. The riders held short spears at the ready.
“Charge!”
Five chariots in line hurtled across the square. “Throw!” Five short spears arched out, and four of the intruding Lordkin fell. The others ran, dropping their loot, dropping everything else they carried. Only one turned to raise his Lordkin knife in defiance. He got Heroul’s spear dead in his chest for his effort. The charioteers came to a halt.
The Burning City Page 51
