Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series

by John Stockmyer

  Back to the present.

  They were headed for the City of Grege, located at a fork in the Tartrazine. At least that's where the last tavern owner had assured John this trail would take him.

  City or no, John had decided this was the last day to seek information before doubling back to Hero Castle. Much as he wanted to learn how the Stil-de-grain-Malachite-Azare war was going, he was even more concerned about keeping within striking distance of Hero Castle and of home.

  The decision to turn back firmed up in John's mind, John gave his attention to the countryside around him, bushy, dark green trees closing on the road, by the look and smell of them, scraggly pines.

  Overhead, the glow -- John almost said "sun" shine to himself -- that came from the golden sky was warm, but not too hot. Nor was the morning cold. Of the bands John had heard about, Stil-de-grain had the most moderate climate. Fog every dawn and dusk. Rain every night. But a comfortable temperature during the day. No wind. Had historian Paul been right when he'd guessed this place to be an artificially constructed terrarium?

  In the only other band John had visited, Malachite, it had been too warm for John's comfort, even though Golden, a Malachite native, said the temperature was unnaturally cool. A failing of the magic, Golden had said, the green sky darkening over that unfortunate band. No wind? Except that in Malachite, John had felt the beginning of a wind, an evil, magic wind, Golden thought, blowing misfortune from the dark band of Azare.

  So passed another hour of walking at a slow, Zwicia dictated pace, the only sounds to be heard, the scuffling of boots on loose rock, the twittering of tree-infested birds, and an occasional, meaningless Zwicia-mumble, the trees crowding ever closer, their scent blocking competing odors.

  Until John found himself at the edge of a defile that plunged into a heavily-wooded valley, the ubiquitous pines joined there by deciduous trees -- oaks, elms, hickories -- soaring to knit a leafy canopy above the road.

  Before clambering down from the rim to enter that tangle at the bottom, John called another halt.

  Below them, forest birds shrieked from leaf-thickened branches before flying off with the warning that the most dangerous of creatures -- men -- were near, the strident bird calls striking John as harbingers of hate.

  Stupid. Superstitious. .......... Worrisome.

  "Keep together," John warned, and waved the others forward, John still in the lead, Robin bringing up the rear.

  Easing down the rocky slope, the party entered the woods at the bottom.

  Dark and damp -- was the first impression of the forest. Cool -- was the second: the temperature dropping beneath the thatch of trees. Underfoot, the path turned slick as lichens squirmed across the forest's fenny track, the path itself wriggling like a wounded snake. Slithering past ... what? Ponds? Bogs?

  Birds flitted through the latticed ceiling of dark greenery. Shrilled at them from treetops.

  Squirrels skittered.

  Insects scraped and buzzed.

  Until, in defiance of explanation in that thickening forest, the animal noises ... stopped.

  Silence. In nature, a truly ominous sound.

  It was then that John's fears solidified into two dangerous looking men on the trail ahead, not so much coming toward John's party as blocking the path. Glancing over his shoulder, John saw that retreat was no longer possible, three other strangers positioned directly behind them.

  All with the look of the predator.

  Now aware of the intruders, everyone stopped.

  John glanced behind him to see the rough men closing, John whirling back to find those in front were armed, a long knife dangling from the belt of the bigger of the men ahead, the other man with a club.

  Not knowing what to do, only that he had to do something, John slipped off his pack and fumbled out the soldier's sword, the only weapon the party had.

  With a gravelly yell from the men in front, the hardened looking strangers closed in a burst, the first to reach John's party knocking Robin to the ground and grabbing Platinia.

  Seeing that the bandit had a knife at Platinia's throat, Zwicia gave one of her paralyzing screams which, if John's party had been armed, might have helped.

  As it was, Zwicia's yell caused only momentary confusion, a space of time in which John could feel Platinia looking at him, pleading with him to surrender so that she might live.

  Throwing down the sword, John told himself that neither fight nor flight was an option, the situation hopeless.

  "Good," grunted the largest of the men.

  Close enough for John to see him clearly, the bandit leader wore a hodgepodge of clothing -- soldiers boots, a woman's robe of green silk, a traveler's woolen cloak, a red, merchant's hat (each piece no doubt stolen from a different victim.) The leader's dark face framed an old scar hacked down his forehead, below the scar, shark-dead eyes.

  The big man motioned for John's party to take off their backpacks and dump them on the ground.

  "You," the fellow said to one of his other men. "Look." Putting his short bow on the ground, the underling inspected the women, the thief who'd been holding Platinia hostage letting her go so she could be searched.

  Giving the women a cursory pat down, the robber stuck his fingers into the belt pouches of the Army Head and Robin.

  Recognizing John as the group's leader, the man searched John more carefully.

  Found ... nothing ... not even the money, John thought grimly, a pocket in the side of a tunic unknown in this land.

  At another arm wave from the large man, three of the man's four followers tore into the packs, John noticing for the first time that the fourth man was too misshapen to do the sort of work the search required, the grotesque robber seeming to be more animal than man.

  Again, except for supplies, the bandits found nothing.

  Enraged that John's party had so little worth stealing, the cutthroat cursed loudly and drew his knife, the others, seeing him do that, also pulling their belt knives.

  Was the thug going to order his men to massacre John's party? John tensed his muscles in preparation to go down fighting.

  Except ... that the bandit leader ... hesitated.

  From his position at the front of the line, looking back, John could see that Platinia had fixed the felon with her intensive gaze. A look John knew. A disconcerting stare.

  Glancing at the leader of the robbers, John saw the man's butchered face break into a grim smile. The smile into a grimace. The grimace into a leer. Clearly, at least for Platinia, the man's plans had changed.

  "Tie the others. Sassu, blindfold that one," growled the hoodlum, pointing at John.

  And it was done, quickly, efficiently, the man's three, able-bodied followers tying everyone but Platinia, the man slipping a sweat-soaked cloth around John's eyes, knotting the blindfold behind John's head.

  A pause, and John was prodded off, the feel of bushes scraping against him on both sides making it plain that he was being herded off the trail.

  But not far, John's guard forcing John to the mossy ground, John leaning back to find himself positioned against a tree.

  And the others? No indication they'd been taken to the same place, the lack of noise arguing they had not.

  What should John do? What could he do?

  Time passed, John straining to hear ... something ... picking up a mournful bird call to interrupt the generalized droning of an insect inspired silence.

  Was it possible that, tied and blindfolded, John had been left alone? Or was one of the thugs there with him?

  Tentatively, John tried to get his legs under him so he could rise. Got a sharp crack on the head for his trouble.

  That question answered.

  More time went by, John's arms cramping, the tie rope cutting off feeling in his hands.

  How long had it been?

  An hour?

  Two hours?

  Thirty minutes?

  Whatever the time, the only human sound John had heard so far was someone coming through
the brush -- and someone leaving.

  Until another bandit pushed through the thicket.

  "So, you came back, did you?" said a thick, sarcastic voice. Not the voice of the leader but of another of the robbers.

  "He was watching ahead on my orders." That was the leader's bark. Apparently, three of the five bandits were there with John. "Go to check on the others. It is time that this new man makes a kill."

  John heard a low, ugly laugh but couldn't tell who had made it. Followed by the noise of bushes swishing as one of the men exited as ordered.

  "Kill him," ordered the leader.

  Sweat runneled John's face and neck! His breath choked in his throat!

  Unable to do anything but listen to his approaching death, John's universe shrunk to the hiss of a blade drawn from a leather sheath!

  Shaking uncontrollably, his mind a blank, John heard another sound ... a strangled cry, like the combination of a gurgle and a gasp followed by a thud!

  The next thing John knew, someone was pulling him up by his armpits, John's legs so shaky he almost fell -- would have, except that he could brace himself against the tree.

  John felt a downward pressure on his sore arms. Heard a ... sawing ....

  And ... his hands were free!

  Whoever was with him had cut the tie-rope!

  Rubbing his hands, John massaged enough sensation into his numb fingers to claw the blindfold down around his neck.

  Blinking his eyes into focus in the dark glen, John saw ... a thick, oddly-dressed body lying at one end of the small clearing.

  "Hooc is dead," said a voice to the other side, a voice somehow familiar.

  Looking quickly, John saw a slender man outlined against the grove's close-set trees, a dagger in a blood-spotted scabbard belted at his side, the youth making a hurried gesture to warn John to silence.

  In the dark of the forest, the young man disguised by his dirty patchwork of stolen clothes, John woke up to the fact that the youth was ... Golden!

  -16-

  "Golden! I can't believe it!" Though startled, John was doing his best to keep his voice down.

  "I did not know that you had returned, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin," Golden said, bowing solemnly, his dark hair and eyes invisible in the shadows.

  "But how did you ...?"

  "We are still in danger, sir. Unless, with your magic ..."

  "Let's just say," John said, recovering somewhat, his knees beginning to steady under him, "that I want to keep my magic under wraps for now." John was rallying so fast because, in this surrealistic environment, he never seemed to be as frightened in dangerous situations as he knew he should be.

  "Under ... wraps?"

  "Hidden."

  "Of course, sir. Like before."

  "Like before."

  What a strange happenstance. Meeting Golden, here. If anywhere, John thought he might find Golden in Xanthin, searching for the green crystal of Pfnaravin that Golden thought was hidden in the palace, the crystal Golden hoped he could use as a symbol of power to overthrow his uncle, the "pretend king" of Malachite. "But you're right. And not only are we in danger, but they've also got Platinia and Zwicia." Now was hardly the time to ask Golden about his obvious relationship to the robber band.

  "Platinia?" Said with indifference. "Zwicia!?" Said with fear.

  "There are four more of them. Holding the others. Probably, somewhere off the road like I was being kept here."

  "Yes. That would be the pattern. Should anyone come down the trail."

  "You can find them?"

  "Yes." Golden bowed again.

  "It's your party," John said quietly.

  "Party ...?"

  "Lead the way."

  Nodding again, Golden turned and, limping slightly, slipped through the foliage, John right behind him.

  Coming to the edge of the forest track, they crossed the exposed path, Golden fading into the underbrush on the other side, apparently able to follow a trail invisible to John, John trailing as best he could.

  Brushing through the forest's scrub, swishing away needled branches, going quickly but quietly, Golden stopped. Put up his hand.

  Gliding up beside the young Malachite, John looked through a fringe of pine needles to see the members of his party in another open space in the woods. The men bound and blindfolded, sitting on the ground. The women standing. The four remaining criminals on guard.

  Before John could think what to do next, Golden had stepped into the open space.

  Tossing up what looked like the bandit leader's knife so that he palmed the blade, Golden spoke. "Hooc is dead. Put your weapons on the ground." Realizing too late that Golden had changed sides, with a curse, one of the thugs pulled his dagger, Golden throwing the knife, flicks of leaf-filtered light sparking from the whirring shaft as it spun off to sink into the man's shoulder. John couldn't tell if it was the man or Zwicia who screamed the loudest, the bandit dropping his knife to clutch his wound.

  Golden had already pulled another knife, as John stepped from the underbrush to back the young man's play.

  Golden's firepower convincing them, the remaining thugs drew their knives and dropped them on the ground in surrender. With a groan, the third pulled the thrown dagger from his bleeding shoulder, dropping the blood-stained blade also.

  The deformed bandit just stood there, his grotesquely twisted body seeming to isolate him from external reality.

  Realizing that only John and Golden threatened them, all four bandits suddenly turned and fled into the woods in different directions, the misshapen man lurching monstrously, the wounded man grunting and holding his arm but scattering with the rest.

  The fight over, no way to chase down four robbers, all that remained was for John to calm Zwicia and for Golden to cut the older men loose.

  Worried, John glanced at Platinia -- to see, in the forest's half-light, the same passive look from her as always. He could only hope Golden had been in time to rescue them all from their intended fate.

  Following John's introduction of Golden to the men (as a friend from an earlier time) and their thanks to Golden, the party collected the bandit's weapons.

  "I don't want to be lumbered with the bow," John said, making decisions on the spur of the moment. "Cut the string, though. That way, if the bandits double back, it won't be operational."

  "Yes, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin," Golden said.

  For his own protection, John picked up one of the highwayman's broad-bladed daggers. Stuck it in his belt.

  After that, everyone up and ready, Golden led them back to the path.

  Stuffing their scattered supplies into their bandit-emptied packs, shouldering the carryalls, the party set out once more along the winding forest track, John leading but signaling Golden to walk with him at the front, John having a number of questions for the taciturn young man.

  Down the damp trail again, through the silent, twisting tunnel of trees, the order of march was: John, Golden, Platinia, Zwicia, Leet, and Robin.

  John and Golden opening a lead on the others, it was time for a little chat. "How did you know about the bandits?"

  "I was in their company," Golden said softly, also keeping his voice down so the others couldn't hear. Did Golden describe himself as a member of the gang? Certainly not! Just "in the bandit's company." For all his sober, sometimes reverential ways, Golden had never been completely trustworthy. "It was after the battle. I was wounded. They found me. Took me with them."

  In Golden's low, melodious, too calm voice, the story followed. About how the Stil-de-grain Army had been ambushed and defeated. About the rout through the marsh. About how Golden had come to join the robber band, concluding with a tale of Malachite marauders making it too dangerous for the "irregulars" to continue in their camp in the Realgar Marsh. Driven out, foraging on the run, desperate, they'd come "south" to link up with what was left of the Stil-de-grain Army, rumored to be holed up in the Claws.

  The whole story. At least, all Golden was prepared to tell.

  "
I thought the army was destroyed in the ambush of Carotene," John prodded.

  "Yes, though some, like me, may have escaped. It is more that the navy is thought to be in the Claws."

  "Still under the command of Coluth?" Golden shrugged.

  Though Golden had provided John with more information about the war than John had learned so far, John still didn't know enough to predict the war's outcome. If there was still a Stil-de-grain Navy .........

  Golden's revelations whetting John's appetite to learn more, John began to toy with the idea of traveling to the Claws.

  The Claws.

  During a quiet day on the Roamer, John remembered Coluth talking about that location, the Claws a series of talon-shaped bays at the "bottom" of an expanse of water called Sea Minor. "South" of the Island of Xanthin, the island itself a fortress protecting the Stil-de-grain capital of the same name. (Of course, "polar-inspired" terms like "North" and "South" had no place in this pancake world.)

  If what was left of Stil-de-grain defense was gathered in the Claws, and if John meant to go there, that left John with another sticky little problem.

  Leet.

  While it was one thing to include the Malachite Army Head as John's traveling companion, it was quite another to give Leet a look at what could very well be Stil-de-grain's last-ditch defense.

  A problem that could be solved.

  John held up his hand to call a halt, the others bunching up like the squeezed bellows of an accordion.

  "Leet. I need to speak to you," John said, turning, the Malachite Army Head marching forward.

  Suddenly, Leet bowed low, his crippled arm swinging forward, his short, gray hair almost in the dirt. "How can I serve you, great Mage?"

  "Mage?" What now?

  "I heard the new man address you as Pfnaravin, Mage of Malachite." Again the old officer bowed.

  Though John didn't remember Golden calling him that, he probably had. Was there no way of keeping John's phony identity a secret?

  The question was, what to do now? "And how do you know he didn't lie?" Stalling had helped John get himself orientated before; perhaps it would again.

  "Who but a Mage would know the location of Hero Castle's Mage-hole? Who could overwhelm this bandit pack?" The officer bowed again. "And I knew the Mage, Pfnaravin, would come back from the other world. The signs were clear. If I have given offense by failing to recognize you sooner, my Mage, I beg your pardon." Again, the awkward bow.