For now, John ordered a passing supply wagon slavey to deliver refreshments to Platinia, Zwicia, and to the women's hulking coachman.
Meanwhile, at John's order, the cart driver tapped the reins, the ponies starting up reluctantly, their heads down, red tongues out, their hairy withers dark with sweat, the driver pulling the cart into the line of march, John walking by the side of the wagon.
While the women were being fed, stable hands came up to hold water buckets under the ponies' muzzles, the hostlers walking backward in front of the ponies so the small beasts could drink. After that, slaveys tied feed bags so the little horses could munch grain as they walked along.
After a quick meal himself, wanting to be closer to Platinia as much as anything, John decided to ride in the cart a ways.
"I'll drive for a little while," John said to the stolid driver, John stepping on the wagon's "running board" then clambering up on the seat, the man handing over the reigns, the wagoner jumping down. "Walk ahead of us. I'll need you later."
Trying to look like he knew what he was doing, John gathered the sweat stained leather strips in both hands like he'd seen drivers do in "stage coach" movies. Never touching any kind of reins -- pony or plug -- John had to hope the tricky little beasts were too tired to give him trouble.
"Tell me, Platinia," John said to the girl beside him on the high seat. "Did Chryses give you any trouble about your taking the red bird?
"..... No."
Though outwardly all remained the same -- the golden sky band above Stil-de-grain just barely "tarnished," the smells and sounds of the army unchanged, the cart's solid, wooden wheels continuing to rumble and squeak as they jarred their passenger's bones -- something was wrong! Was it Platinia, the way she sounded, the way she looked? True, it was difficult to "read" the girl's feelings. This time, though ... her tone of voice ...."
Turning his head, John stared at the girl, Platinia refusing to meet his eyes. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there Platinia?"
The quick look of distress on her face told him he was right.
"You must tell me."
"It is that ... Chryses is ... dead."
"Dead!? Surely not. How could he ...?"
"He was alive. Now, he is dead."
"You mean he died after your arrival at the castle? Not very likely."
"He was ... old."
"Zwicia ...." John twisted all the way around to look through the wagon cover at the old woman frumped down on the back seat. "Platinia said that Chryses is dead."
"Dead."
"Did you see him die?"
"Not."
Then how do you know he is ...?"
"He dead."
"How did it happen?"
"Fell."
"Down the stairs?" Though John still didn't believe in the reality of Chryses' death, John seemed to be getting closer to some kind of truth.
"Off wall."
"You mean to tell me he fell off the castle wall!?"
"Chryses was old," Platinia said quietly, her fingers weaving in her lap like mating water snakes. "He was old and ... fell."
The possibility that the gentle old man had actually tumbled to his death from the wall of Hero castle, was sinking in.
Accidents did happen. Without a doubt, more frequently to the blind. Though Chryses knew the castle, could shuffle around it like a sighted person, a single mental error, a little slip ..... Though John hadn't known Chryses well, John felt ... sad.
Continuing to "drive" the docile ponies, John asked other questions, gaining the following limited, but collaborative information: neither woman had seen Chryses fall; they had been together in one of the castle's sleeping rooms when a castle slavey reported the accident. Both were certain Chryses had died in the accident. The women swore they had seen the body.
Depressing.
As for that unfeeling insect, the army, it continued to centipede it's way along, the death of any single man to an organization committed to the slaughter of the many, a fact of insignificance.
At the end of the day's advance, Etexin calling the usual halt before down-light, the army prepared to bivouac beside the road, troopers falling in to dig the day's-end-defensive-ditch around the area where the army would pitch its tents, other solders planting sharpened palisade stakes at the ditch's perimeter. Men were posted inside this dirt-and-stake fortification to guard the sleeping army from whatever might be "out there" in the fog and rain and dark of night.
John and his people, as well as the Head and his staff slept -- also under heavy guard -- at the nearest inn. The privileges of rank.
After a bath and supper, John retired to his room to "meditate." (Now that Platinia had returned, John had her with him in his room, the exhausted girl already asleep on a pallet near the door.)
A single, spitting torch served John as a "night light" as he sat on the edge of the shelf bed by the wall.
Except for the always and forever drip of nighttime rain off the inn's thatched roof, there was silence. No army noise; no incessant dust; no pathetic refugees.
This was John's time to reflect on the day's events.
Chryses' death. Sad, though in any "reality," less painful than the death of someone young.
Shifting to thoughts about the coming battle and about the universal belief in the power of Mages, John pulled his useless Crystal from inside his tunic top, dangling it before his eyes to look at its curving yellow glass. Sardonically, he rubbed the crystal with one finger; noticed the build up of a little static -- the only "magic" the crystal had as far as he'd been able to discern. Too little "occult power" to do him any good.
Trying to observe the Crystal closely in order to determine if he'd "missed something" about the gem's nature, John found himself wishing that the room's torch would do more than gutter shadows on the tiny chamber's cubical walls.
More serious by far, was the certainty that the flickering of the torch was caused by the fading of the light over Stil-de-grain, reduced "torch power" a manifestation of Stil-de-grain's weakening magic.
And when the failure of the light got worse? When people began to catch colds -- sickness something this world's people had never known -- how long before his own people demanded he do something magical to help them? To say nothing of what would happen when he failed to produce on that occasion? John had worries above and beyond the coming war against a "creepy" enemy.
With all his heart, John wished he did have magical powers; that he could strengthen the band's light; that he had the sorcery to make that torch across the way burn true again!
The torch in its wall crevice ... steadied.
John blinked. Had he actually seen what he thought he'd seen!? John rubbed the crystal again, at the same time wishing the torch flame would grow brighter still. Wished hard!
To see ... gradually ... but steadily ... the artificial flame of the torch give out more light (almost like an increase in current will brighten a light bulb) the flame changing from red to burnished yellow, finally to light gold "hot."
Excited now, John stood. Stepping across the sleeping girl to approach the torch, he ran his shaky fingers through its "fire." .... Still cold. .... Though the flame was definitely brighter, steadier.
Taking a deep, settling breath, John rubbed his Crystal between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, at the same time concentrating on the flame, wishing it would go out.
And ... like the snapping of a switch, the room was plunged in darkness!
Again, fingers trembling, John thought "light." And the torch was lit.
Though by this time John was breathing fast, was shaky, he was also grinning. At last, he too, could make magic in this place! .....
Calmer now, he felt ... exhilaration!
At the same time (deliberately thinking thoughts that would help to keep him steady) John had to admit that, here, lighting and putting out a torch by magic was a minor feat. A case in point, John the only person he knew in the entire land who could not work this
kind of elemental magic. At least until now.
Then, John thought of something else. Anyone else could do as he had done -- think a torch alight, think it out ... but only during up-light.
With amazement, John realized he'd controlled the torch ... after dark, something, to his knowledge, no one else could do.
So -- that was the power of the Crystal! A Mage with a Crystal could work magic in the dark! At least the kind of limited magic that was possible in this world.
As for what benefit he could derive from his unique ability to work night-magic ... he'd have to think about it.
Two more days on the road, and the traffic (which had been so heavy for the last hour it threatened to stop the army's progress altogether) -- thinned. To a father and mother pulling their two, young children in a wagon, the cart "limping" along on a lashed-together wheel, behind them a distraught farmer herding a particularly cantankerous bunch of pigs, after that, at a distance, two old women. Then ... no one ..... The road ahead clear. Why?
A quick look around him told John the soldiers had become uneasy, the men quieter, more alert. They still marched purposefully, but carefully; were loosening their swords in their scabbards; making sure the throwing axes in their belts could be quickly hefted.
It was definitely time for a staff meeting, John trotting forward as Etexin's halt-command was being echoed through the ranks.
The army now at a standstill, seeing Etexin moving back toward him between the stationary files, John ordered slaveys to pitch the command tent in an open spot to the side of the road.
Suspecting that the enemy was just ahead, John and Etexin put out a call for all unit commanders.
Inside fifteen minutes, Etexin, Flebb, and ten Heads of the army's units were seated along both sides of four butted-together folding tables, John at the end, John's people on his right.
The battle group officers all there, John was ready to start the meeting when a slavey interrupted to usher in one of the army's scouts.
Coming but a single step within the tent flap, after a jerky bow, the forward observer announced what John and Etexin had thought, that just over a crest of ground some thousand yards before the van, lay the enemy. The army had reached the front.
"Tell us exactly what you saw," John asked from his position at the head of the table, at the same time motioning to a serving slavey in the tent to pour a cup of wine for the leathery looking reconnoiterer.
Waiting for his drink, taking it, the thin, leather-covered man said in a reedy voice, "I saw ...." Then, as if overwhelmed by thirst, took a long drink, sighed, and wiped his lips with the back of his free hand, "... these ... people. All in a line, a long ways off but coming toward me. The line of them was as far as I could see." He spread his hands, looking first one way, then the other, the scout the kind of long, lean man that Daniel Boone should have been, but probably wasn't -- a man with a weathered, axe-blade face.
"Coming toward you." John prompted.
"That's right. Slow. Crawling."
"And what were they doing?"
"I was a ways off, like I said. But they seemed to be stooped over."
"Stooped over?"
"Looked like they was tear'n out grass and bushes." The scout shrugged, John glancing at Etexin who looked as confused as John felt.
"But ... why ...?"
"Near as I could figure, all they're leavin' behind them is dirt. They got sickles. They got hoes. At least that's what it looked like. As I said, I was quite a ways off." Finishing his wine with a final gulp; he passed the cup to the slavey for a refill. "It's like they're plowin' up the whole country, gettin' ready to sow a crop."
Inadvertently, John shuddered. If what he was hearing proved true, you couldn't match that level of obliteration with an atomic bomb!
Of course the enemy was advancing slowly! A leaf-by-leaf, blade of grass by glass blade kind of devastation, took time.
John found himself standing, pacing, Etexin and the corps Heads seated on folding camp stools behind the flimsy tables.
Though the army Head and his men had also been served, they weren't drinking, their faces as white as the enemy was alleged to be.
John turned to the forward observer who was still standing by the tent flap, nervous at being in the presence of his "betters."
"Did any of the enemy's scouts see you?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't think they got any." The frontiersman paused to take the refilled cup. "It's not like they're an army at all. It's just like they're a bunch of farmers, plowin' up the whole country. From what I could tell, behind them there's nothing but stripped ground, for as far as I could see." He took another drink as if the sight of all that barren land had left him dry.
"White? The enemy has been described as white."
"Oh, yeah." As an afterthought, the scout wiped his lips again with the back of his fist. Clearly, he was making every effort to be on his best behavior. "They're white alright. As white as new born babes."
"Animals?"
"Don't remember. ... Yes. .... Dogs. Ponies, I guess. Now that I come to think about it, they was white, too. Didn't seem to be pulling anything. The ponies, I mean."
"I've got to see this for myself." John shot a look at Etexin, Etexin nodding gravely. John turned to the messenger again. "In your judgment, would the Head and I be at risk if you took us to get a look at the enemy?"
"I don't see how. They don't look dangerous to me. I was at a distance, don't you know, but they looked ... kind of like small folks." With his free hand, the woodsman stroked the stubble of his unkempt beard, thoughtfully. "'Course, I didn't tangle with 'em. But they don't even seem to me to be lookin' out. They're just doin' like I said. Diggin' up the countryside."
"In a long line."
"Well ... to be accurate, more like a long bunch of folks. Not a one person line. But a bunch of little people, all in a string, everybody bent over, tearing everything out of the ground as they go."
An hour later, taking elaborate precautions to keep below a line of low, green, gently rolling hills that lay between themselves and the enemy, John, Etexin, three of Etexin's corps Heads, plus a company of hand-picked phalanx-men, were following the woodsman up a grassy ridge.
Just before the top, the point man indicated the foe was in the valley beyond.
Stopped, the spotter crawled to the summit to take a look, signaling John and Etexin to approach.
Crouched down beside the scout, they eased their heads up to look into the glen.
And there they were.
Short people in a rough line -- men, women, children -- bent over, pulling up grass, sickling down bushes, leveling everything in their path.
From John's position, which was at least two hundred yards away, his overall impression was the same as the lookout's: that the enemy troops?? were small and ... white. Dead white faces, arms. What had to be children, also the color of alabaster.
Beside them were pale animals: dogs, ponies. Were the animals scratching at the land with their paws-hooves, helping the people to root up grass? Outlandish!
Seeing people engaged in this kind of mindless activity was ... bizarre. But ... were these people, whoever they were, dangerous? ...... This, was an army?
For a length of time, John and his party continued to watch, hoping to learn something of military value about the enemy's "troops." But the only other impression John got was that the people below him were behaving like ... trained animals. Acting like they'd been hypnotized. Were under a spell.
John had to admit to himself that he'd lived long enough in this "other reality" to think of "spells" as a potential explanation of the enemy's behavior. In fact, able to work a little magic himself now, he thought it a distinct possibility that these people ripping up the valley were under magical constraint. How else could he explain such mindless activity?
Mindless? Not if the total devastation of Stil-de-grain was the object.
White people, reported to have come from the black band of Azare.
White people from a black band. And why not? Their home band in magical darkness for countless years was bound to have an effect on the people. Without light, had they lost skin pigment? The animals, too? Did these people below him on the plane have the colorless eyes of the albino? Was it even possible, living so long in total darkness, that they were blind? Cave fish lost their ability to see after eons of swimming through eternal blackness.
Increasingly, John had to consider the possibility that the enemy below was under the diabolic influence of the evil Mage of Azare, that the iniquitous Wizard, long confined in darkness, was using his people to revenge himself against those who had imprisoned him within his Band.
John could even guess the strategy of the wicked Mage. First, terrify the people of Malachite into attacking Stil-de-grain, Stil-de-grain's forces to be trapped on Xanthin island. After neutralizing the Stil-de-grain army in this way, use mesmeric power to compel Azare's civilians to destroy the undefended countryside of Stil-de-grain.
Nor did Auro's designs stop there. The Stil-de-grain part of his "grand design" under way, Auro had forced the Malachites to attack Realgar. Destroy the Realgar army at Carotene, and Auro could unleash his hypnotized civilians to devastate Realgar as he was presently destroying Stil-de-grain.
Not a sprig of green to be alive when he'd finished. No less than the complete and utter ruination of his enemies was the goal. Revenge incarnate!
John flashed on a story he'd read about the migration of an army of South American ants, the ants stripping everything in their path, before his eyes, was seeing that story lived out on an inhuman scale.
John's only comfort was the certain knowledge that Mages, no matter how malevolent, could miscalculate. Something Auro had done by failing to take into account the possibility of a breakout by the forces of Stil-de-grain.
Auro's "army" of white robots might be anathema to plant life. Could terrorize civilians. But against a properly equipped professional army, they had little chance.
Under The Stairs Page 30
