It had been bad luck that, from a great distance, a flight arrow from a pursuing Malachite had wounded Golden in the calf. Unaware that the sting in his leg had done him damage, Golden continued to flee, clawing, with the rest, through the coppice clogged marsh. In sweaty dreams, he still heard the screams of men who had stumbled into bottomless sinks!
It was only after Golden had gotten past the most dangerous mud flats in the quagmire -- the Malachites sacrificing too many of their own men to the sulfurous bog to continue the chase -- that Golden realized the extent of his injury, falling to the quavering ground, Golden unable to stand again.
The stragglers of the routed Stil-de-grain Army racing past, Golden found himself helpless and alone.
Colored birds scolded from above. Around him, sounded the buzz and scrape of insects and the occasional watery splash of swamp-life in the distance. He also heard the fearful bellow of something seeking larger prey.
As down-light approached, Golden had dragged himself to a hollow log, crawling inside to hide from the terrors of the dark.
He had water. (All anyone had to do to obtain a drink was make a stick-hole in the stinking turf, wait until the depression filled with water, use a hollow reed to suck up the fetid liquid.)
Not knowing what plants might be edible in this peaty bog, Golden had two choices: to starve or to risk poison. (He did catch and eat several, many legged insects. But threw them up again.)
Days passed, Golden about to chance eating some bright, red-skinned berries on a low, swamp bush -- when the evil pack chanced by.
That was how Golden had joined the robber band.
This murderous troop knew nothing of Golden's entertainer skills, of course, of his mastery of rope walking. Or his faculty to climb walls. Nor had they seen his art with throwing knifes, or dexterousness with lock picks or with the other tools of thieves. (This was not the first time Golden had been made to run with robbers -- though the only time since Golden was a child.)
The six of them, shabby blankets draped around their shoulders against the bog's misty damp, were following a trail that wound through clutching undergrowth, a path known only to the leader. A dangerous route that took them back into the marsh, each man careful to place his foot in the oozing boot track of the man before him.
Already, they had lost three ponies -- one-by-one -- the shaggy beasts straying out of line. One moment the animal would be on firm ground; the next, sinking into the swamp, plunging, thrashing itself in deeper, neighing pitifully, the doomed pony's eyes rolling as the bog sucked it down to a muddy death.
With a caught pony, there was nothing to be done but cut it loose before its tie-line pulled down its brothers.
Each time the swamp claimed another pony, Hooc and the others yelled in anger. None would take Golden's suggestion, though, that each man tie his pack to a pony and lead the beast himself, in this way seeing the ponies safely through the fogbound fen. Leading ponies was work for slaveys, said Hooc. (Though, apparently, carrying a pack of stolen goods, was not.)
Hooc hardly glanced at the shivering turf as he splashed them through a sharply twisting course, circling, veering off at tangents, doubling back.
How Hooc knew the way, he never said -- though Golden had a guess. Since Hooc was a man of Realgar and since, in the past, Tauro, King of Realgar, had marked out trails through the marsh, that must be how Hooc knew.
Golden remembered hearing of the time when King Tauro, using his army to do the deadly work, had wave after wave of his civilians driven into the marsh -- farther -- farther -- soldiers goading them to their almost certain death. Trailing the doomed populace were officers who marked down the safe places where people did not sink.
Finding ways through the swamp in this brutal way meant that the Great Marsh -- Realgar's zone of defense against the enemy -- would no longer be an impediment should Realgar wish to go on the attack.
When the dreadful deed was done, only the king plus a handful of military heads knew the safe trails.
After which, "accidents" began to happen to the officers who knew how to penetrate the swamp.
Until only the king had knowledge of the passages through the marsh.
It was Golden's guess that a few Realgar Army Heads escaped the king's murderous intent, Hooc one of these.
Golden thought about the recent war. Stil-de-grain against Malachite -- Malachite allied with the evil Mage-King of the black, inner band of Azare.
He thought of the earlier battle where John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had used his golden, Mage-magic to best the white forces the evil Auro had sent into Stil-de-grain.
That battle had been to beak-ward, on the up-light side of Stil-de-grain. Beyond Temple Fulgur.
In contrast, Golden thought of how General Etexin of Stil-de-grain had mishandled this last campaign.
Trying to relieve Realgar's city of Carotene, Etexin had shipped his army past the marsh, landing the Stil-de-grain forces to the swamp's beak-ward side.
The secret offensive failing when the men of Malachite ambushed Stil-de-grain's forces.
Supposedly laying siege to the City of Carotene farther on, the enemy had doubled back to surprise the Stil-de-grain Army at the Carotene river crossing -- so that what was left of the panic-stricken troops of Stil-de-grain had fled into the Great Marsh at their back.
The blessing for Golden, was that he had been wounded in this lighter band, so that his body weighed less than it did in Stil-de-grain -- in this way, sparing his injured leg.
Still following Hooc through a cloud of buzzing insects, Golden found the marsh thickening, the orange glow overhead darkening to burnt umber, the rotting limbs of fallen trees slowing them even more.
Past the trees and down the left fork of the branching trail, they came to the bramble-walled enclosure beside the path that was the irregular's base.
Where were they in the marsh? Golden did not know, nor did the others. It seemed to Golden that, always, Hooc led them on confusing pathways so that, if Hooc "died," the rest would be lost in the swamp forever. Large of body as Hooc was, marsh-knowledge was Hooc's true strength.
Xevi and Renn sliding back the compound's wattled fence, the party entered, Golden leading the ponies, Xevi and Renn pushing the fence-gate closed behind them. Weapons at the ready, the men checked each wood and plat-grass lean-to, making certain no enemy occupied their primitive bulwark. For there were other robber bands in the Great Marsh, making Golden wonder how long the swamp would be a refuge, even for predators like these.
After the enclosure had been searched, Golden led the ponies to the back, to the makeshift stable.
Returned to the open hearth in front, Sassu, small but quick, had begun to turn a spit of captured meat -- venison, by the smell of it.
The others -- Hooc, Xevi, Iscu and Renn -- were on straw pallets before the heating stones, each drinking from wine bottles "liberated" from the inn's stores.
Everyone was tired.
No matter what was generally thought, murdering and stealing was as exhausting as honest work.
No one spoke as Golden slid his pallet from his peat-sod shack, dragging it to an open place in the circle about the fire stones. Easing down as best he could, Golden allowed himself to drop the rest of the way, suppressing the groan that the short fall cost him.
"Ready," said Sassu, speaking of the meat, taking it from the heat to hack ragged slices from one end of the spitted roast, the first piece transferred to the knifepoint of Renn, Renn taking it to the seated Hooc.
After that, in descending order, the others were served, Golden the last to receive his share.
The meal over, all retired, Golden was too exhausted to sleep. Perhaps it was his wound, hot-throbbing as it sometimes did when he walked a distance (even over spongy ground in this light-pulling band.)
Awake into the night, Golden tried, again, to puzzle out what had happened to Stil-de-grain's Mage, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin.
It was after the Mage's victory over Auro's charmed army that the M
age, Golden, the girl, and the Weird had left the Stil-de-grain Army as the army marched back to Xanthin, the Mage directing his personal entourage to Hero Castle.
It had been at supper there in the castle's tapestried hall, that the Crystal-Mage had granted Golden's request to return to Xanthin, there to resume Golden's dungeon-interrupted search for the green crystal.
After which ... the Mage had ... vanished!
Or so it seemed.
What was certain was that the Mage did not accompany the army on its ill-fated journey to Carotene.
Platinia, the child-woman who the Mage protected, had also disappeared.
As had that ugly hag, the Weird.
All gone or scattered. The Mage. The girl. The Weird (for which Golden was thankful!) Stil-de-grain's Navy. The army. Coluth. Etexin.
Considering his present circumstances, how long would it be before he, too, would "disappear?"
* * * * *
The gentle lapping of the sea was the only sound Coluth heard as he approached the curving shoreline that scimitarred dramatically into the sea. Before him in the settling, ocher-colored fog, the tie-up dock stretched out into the copper swell.
Eleven merchant ships of Stil-de-grain were snubbed to the quay, seamen on board finishing the down-light meal, the sound, a buzz of quiet talk on the dull-orange sea. A quick laugh. A good-natured shout.
"Capt'n," said Philelph, saluting, Philelph posted as land guard of the evening.
Gentle Philelph. Always desiring to be at Coluth's side, first, on the Roamer. Here, with these few ships-in-hiding (the rest of the merchant marine berthed in similar tie-up docks in Realgar's other claws.)
Coluth did not need to be here by the tie-dock. There was no danger of attack; certainly not this close to down-light. It was the sight of ships and the fresh sea smell that drew him to the water's edge.
With calloused, seaman's hands, he drew his cloak tighter to his body, the night too cool in the Realgar band for a Stil-de-grainer.
Shacks lined the gently slanting path, the shanties cobbled together to house the remnant of Stil-de-grain's forces. Above and beyond the misshapen huts was the inn, constructed on the hill's crown to serve the needs of sailors, back of the inn a corral with fenced in ponies, the ponies for rent as haulers of inland cargo.
Staying in the inn was the young king, soon to be asleep in his small bed on the upper floor, unaware that he was king of ... nothing.
The messenger bird Gagar brought to Coluth that morning had revealed how beggared the young Yarro had become, most of Stil-de-grain in enemy hands, Orpiment just surrendered to the white-faced forces of the evil, Azare band. Likewise, the whites had overrun -- though, this time not stopping to root up every blade of grass -- the entire up-light band to the Lake of Quince. A straggler from across the Tartrazine had reported that a Malachite vanguard had taken Hero Castle!
True, there were rumors of scattered resistance from tiny, marauder companies. But the cold truth was that all that remained of independent Stil-de-grain was here in the area of the Claws, the Claws protecting the exhausted remnant of the army's "glorious" expedition to relieve Carotene.
The fleet was also here. What was left of it. Mostly merchant ships converted into troop transports.
Yes, there was a hardened knot of naval ships, deadly rams of bronze added to their prows on the advice of the Mage. But too few to resist the naval forces of Malachite.
Even the capital -- long thought to be safe on Xanthin Island -- was in enemy hands. (Foreseeing that eventuality, Coluth had gotten young Yarro away in time.)
All that remained were re-formed companies of the Stil-de-grain Army -- armed with light weapons only, the ponderous catapults abandoned in the retreat. A few companies and the merchant marine. Hiding here in Realgar waters, a light band place which, Coluth hoped, men from the heavy band of Malachite would find uncomfortable to conquer.
Down-light was fast coming. The orange sky over the Realgar band, browning out.
Finished with supper, the oarsmen on the boats -- as they were, no doubt, doing in other docks in other claws stretched across the bottom of Sea Minor -- had begun to row the ships away from land, backing out as far as the tie-ropes would stretch. At rope's end, they would drop anchors to keep them away from the dangerous, nighttime shore, at the same time, secure the ships from drifting out among the deep water monsters of the nighttime sea.
A land-guard no longer needed, Philelph, at dock's end, gave his salute then stepped into a punt. Standing in the small craft with the loose balance of a seaman, Philelph poled himself over the shallow stretch of foggy water to join his shipboard comrades for the night.
The darkness settling fast, Coluth must also return to the sheltering inn.
And yet, he lingered.
His rough hands clasped behind him, Coluth kept his weathered face turned seaward, his light eyes seeking to penetrate the increasingly thick mist, now fading to a raw sienna.
As if ... at any moment ... out of the sea ... would come ... the Mage.
For John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was their only hope, if hope there was.
The Mage had evaporated ... like an up-light haze. Rumor said, from Hero Castle. Gone to the other world.
Simple sea captain that he was, Coluth was less afraid of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin than other men. Was this because he'd met the Mage before the Sorcerer had been generally known to be the Mage, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin but a passenger aboard the Roamer?
A strange man who, from the first, asked unanswerable questions. About something called the "sun." About the "moon." The "stars." About a phenomena called tides -- all meaningless queries.
In those days, John-Lyon (as he called himself) seemed, almost, to be simple. Still, he had pulled his weight of oar. Truthfully, more than his weight of oar, the Mage with unusual strength.
Taking into account his ... odd ... qualities ... there was no hint at that time that John-Lyon was Pfnaravin.
After the naval defeat, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin -- now Mage of Stil-de-grain -- had appointed Coluth Naval Head.
Now, the army also defeated, all that remained was a child-king and some useless ships.
Wanting to consider even ugly possibilities, what if, dissatisfied with less than complete victory, the forces of Malachite did came Claw-ward?
Would Coluth have the courage to flee with the child-king ... to Cinnabar?
Coluth had been to Cinnabar but once. As a young captain, bent on gaining a prize cargo.
Preparing to travel cross band, he'd tied up, perhaps in this very sea-claw at this very dock. He did not remember. It was in a distant time.
Disembarked, he and his men led packed rental ponies to the Cinnabar border, the orange sky overhead shading toward the red, becoming a mixed color, like any border sky.
It was Coluth, by himself (for his crew, though eager to gain the wealth of the Cinnabar, held back,) who had stepped across the border onto the silk-stacked tiles of the Cinnabar trading floor. Had immediately felt band-sickness like he'd never known, becoming so light he feared he would float off the ground, never to return to earth. Float and float into the sky. Drift downland, to be lost forever beyond the world's rim!
Steadying himself, signaling to his men before he lost his courage, they had tossed the trade goods out to him, the bulky bundles and boxes so light when passing into Cinnabar that, though several men must lift them from the pony's backs, Coluth could catch each pack one-handed.
Exchanging the goods for the airy bales of Cinnabar silk -- of little weight even when in heavier bands -- he had tossed the tightly packed silk across the border to his men.
The swap completed, careful not to launch himself above the ground, Coluth had edged back across the boarder into the heaver band of Realgar.
There, more solidly on the ground, safe at last, sweating but buoyed by the awe and admiration of his men, Coluth had ordered the bales of silk to be strapped on the ponies.
All secure at last, as quickly as if night monsters were
loosed upon them, Coluth had led his sailors back to the claw that held their ship.
Scary as it was, it had been a highly profitable venture: that single journey to the world's rim paying off the Roamer debt.
At no time had any mariners seen the flyers of the Cinnabar. But .... somewhere ... flying high above?? ... they had been watching. For if anyone should cheat by leaving too little trade goods -- Malachite iron and copper, Stil-de-grain wheat -- there would be no bales of silk, no pepper or other spice, on the stone floor when next that cheating trader came.
How could the men of Cinnabar know which merchant-trader had defrauded them if they were not watching?
A profitable venture. One he could have duplicated -- Coluth, an honest trader -- a journey some captains made repeatedly (like some would command their men to run the Leech!)
A trek Coluth could never bring himself to take again. Nor did a single member of his crew -- those who had been with him on that terrifying day -- ask him to repeat the journey!
Coluth shuddered!
Though there were different kinds of courage -- the bravery of the sailor wrestling with the sea, the fighter's daring -- none were so bold as those who ventured -- twice -- into the Cinnabar!
-8-
"I remember, once, when lightning hit my daddy's barn," said Professor Gaber in his reedy voice. "That was back in ... let me see ... back in 1910, it must have been." The old man nodded to himself. "That was before rural electrification, which came under Teddy Roosevelt. The Tennessee Valley Project, if memory serves."
Still wearing his baseball cap with the ear-flaps down, Andres Gaber couldn't hold a thought (to say nothing of a fact) for two seconds at a time.
"Living out there ... in the woods, I would think you would have had the foresight to install a lightning rod," put in Kitterman, the Social Science Department's self-proclaimed intellectual. A whip-thin man in a three piece suit.
Of the professors gathered in John's office to hear the bad news, only Paul seemed at all sympathetic.
Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series Page 6
