Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2

by Alan Dean Foster

  As for Haramos bin Grue, he attempted to flee along with the Count, only to find himself shoved roughly back into the bloody pandemonium that had enveloped the hall. As his guard kept them separated, Beckwith had just enough time to shout a passing farewell before ducking to safety.

  “Not a sorcerer, Haramos? You lied to me about that. Could it be that you lied also about how my son died?”

  “No, sire—believe me, I told the truth!” Despite the fact that he was unarmed save for a pair of small concealed knives, the merchant resisted the soldiers. But it was hard to fight with someone when there was a foot of sharp blade and six feet of wooden shaft between you and your opponent. Such was the advantage of the steel-tipped pike.

  “That is the murderer, down there! That uncouth, uncivilized southerner. And he is no sorcerer, by his own word! Though I admit to being fooled by the sorceral devices he carries with him.”

  “You are right about one thing.” Beckwith paused as he crouched to pass beneath the low overhang of the escape portal. His guard fought to keep a curious great white away from their Count. “Someone here is being fooled. I wish I had the time to sort it out.” He hurried into the concealed passageway. One by one, his soldiers tried to follow him. Many succeeded. Others lost limbs and, in a couple of cases, their heads to the rampaging shark.

  Falling back, bin Grue pressed himself against the wall and began to make his way toward the nearest exit, edging steadily away from the royal dais. Before him was being played out an unparalleled spectacle of remorseless carnage. He had nearly reached the door when he made the mistake of bolting. The rapid movement caught the attention of one of the marauding great whites. When he turned, the merchant did not scream in fear but instead cursed violently. His end, therefore, was in keeping with his nature all his life, a reflection of internal toughness and perpetual ire. It made no difference to the shark, which bit him in half.

  Out on the floor of the reception hall there were now eight great whites circling slowly in search of additional prey. The once grand chamber had taken on the aspect of an abattoir, with blood, guts, and body parts scattered everywhere. The last live soldier had fled.

  Sloshing through the shallow lake of unwillingly vented bodily fluids, Ehomba advanced on his still imprisoned friends. Simna followed, hugging as close to his tall friend as possible without actually slipping into his clothing. He had seen how fast the floating sharks could move and had no intention of separating himself from their procreator even for an instant. Soulless black eyes tracked his movements, but the sharks did not attack. A number had settled to the floor and were feeding, gulping down whole chunks of soldier, uniform and all.

  “You are a very canny man.” With a free hand the herdsman rubbed his sore face and shoulders. “As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I intend to pay you back for your canniness.”

  “Hoy, bruther, I had to make it look real, didn’t I? I needed to distract them from what I was doing behind your back. Any sleight of hand needs a good diversion to be effective.” He grinned. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever pick up on what I was trying to do.”

  “I admit you had me concerned at first. What finally revealed your true intentions was the degree of your pleading. I think I understand you well enough to know that you would go down fighting before you would grovel.”

  “Depends on the circumstances,” the swordsman replied without hesitation. “If the need arose, I could grovel with the best of them.” He nodded in the direction of the throne. “But not because of a lie, and never in front of a fat toad like bin Grue.” His tone was harsh. “I saw him go down. He won’t be putting anybody in a cage ever again.”

  Ehomba replied somberly. “Not all the methods a man perfects to protect himself work all the time. That is one thing about sharks: They cannot be reasoned with, distracted, or bribed. Stay close to me.”

  The swordsman did not have to be reminded. The presence of twenty tons or so of floating, fast-moving great white rendered the immediate surroundings decidedly inhospitable.

  “Let me guess. You’re not working any magic whatsoever. You have no idea how this is happening. You’re just making use of the enchanted sword fashioned for you by the village smithy Okidoki.”

  “Otjihanja,” Ehomba corrected him patiently. “That is a silly notion, Simna. A smithy works only with metals.” He hefted the tooth-lined bone shaft. “This sword was made by old Pembarudu, who is a master of fishing. It took him a long time to gather all the teeth from the shore and mount them together on the bone. It is whalebone, of course. A shark has no bones. It is one of the reasons they make such good eating.”

  Keeping low, Simna ibn Sind made hushing motions with one hand. “Don’t speak of such things, Etjole. One of these finny monsters might overhear and get the wrong idea.”

  The herdsman smiled. “Simna, are you afraid?”

  “By Ghogost’s gums, you bet I’m afraid, bruther! Any man confronted by such sights who did say he was not would be a liar of bin Grue’s class. I’m afraid whenever you pick up a weapon, and I’m afraid whenever you pull some innocent little article out of that pack of yours. Traveling with you, I have learned many things. When to be afraid is one of them.” Still smiling, but grimly, he gazed evenly up at his tall companion. “You’re not a man to inspire fear, Etjole, but your baggage—that’s another matter.”

  Ehomba did his best to reassure him. “So long as I hold the sword, I command its progeny. See ...”

  Lowering the weapon, he touched the tip to the metal netting in which Ahlitah was imprisoned. Immediately, the nearest shark turned and swam toward it. Snarling, the black cat backed as far away as it could from jaws that were even more massive and powerful than its own.

  With a snap, the great white took a mouthful of mesh. Thrashing its head from side to side, it used its teeth like saws. When it backfinned and drew away, it left behind a hole in the net large enough for the litah to push through.

  Under Ehomba’s direction, two sharks performed a similar favor for the fourth member of their party. Expanding the resultant gap with one shove of his mighty arms, Hunkapa Aub emerged to stand alongside his friends.

  “Big fish, bad bite.”

  Simna nodded. “I would say, rather: bad fish, big bite—but the end is the same.” Looking around, he surveyed their tormented surroundings. The reception hall had been the scene of solemn slaughter. “Let’s pick up our gear and get out of here. I’ve had about enough of Laconda—north, south, or any other direction.”

  “Soldiers chase?” Hunkapa wondered sensibly as they cautiously exited the room.

  “I do not think so.” Sea-bone sword held out in front of him, Ehomba led the way. Forming two lines of four each, the great whites fell into place on either side of the travelers.

  Their measured departure from the lowlands of Laconda created a stir among the populace that lay the groundwork for stories for decades to come. As was common in such matters, with each retelling the participants expanded in size and ferocity. Ehomba became the malignant warlock of the sea, come to wreak havoc among the gentle floating fishes of Laconda. Simna ibn Sind was his gnomic apprentice, wielding a sword impossibly larger than himself. Hunkapa Aub was a giant with burning eyes and long fangs that dripped olive green ichor, while the black litah was a streak of hell-smoke that burned everything it touched.

  As for the escort of flying great whites, they were magnified in the storytellers’ imaginations until they had become as big as whales, with teeth like fence posts and the temperaments of demons incarnate—as if the reality were not frightening and impressive enough.

  Domestic fish scattered like arrows at the approach of the travelers and their silent escort. Unwarned citizens dove for the nearest cover or hastily shuttered windows and barred doors. More than size or teeth, empty black eyes, or swaying tails, the one thing those who observed the passage of the remarkable procession never forgot were the frightful frozen grins that scored the inhuman faces of the great white
s.

  No one followed them and, needless to say, no one tried to stop them. By the time they reached the northwestern periphery of Laconda North, the border guards, having been informed of what was making its inexorable way in their direction, had long since decided to take early vacation. Marching across the modest, well-made bridge that delineated the frontier, the travelers found themselves in the jumble of lowland forest known as the Yesnaby Hills.

  There Ehomba turned and stood alone, eyes shut tight, the sea-bone sword held vertically before him. As Simna and the others looked on, one by one the great whites swam slowly through the humid air to return whence they had come. The sword sucked them back down as if they were minnows disappearing into a bucket.

  When the last tail had finned its way out of existence, Ehomba slipped the sword into the empty scabbard on his back and turned to resume their journey. A strong hand reached out to stop him.

  “A moment if you please, long bruther.”

  Ehomba looked down at his friend. “Is something the matter, Simna?” The herdsman looked back in the direction of the deserted border post and the Laconda lowlands. “You are not worried about the Count sending his soldiers to chase us down?”

  “Not hardly,” the swordsman replied. “I think they’re smarter than that. What I’m beginning to wonder is if I am.”

  “I do not follow your meaning, my friend.” Nearby, Hunkapa Aub and Ahlitah were exploring a small cave.

  “When you found out where we were, you decided to inform this Beckwith of his son’s fate. The result is that he thinks you killed his heir, and that if he is given another chance, he’ll kill you.”

  “I do not think that is the case. The more time he has to ponder what transpired, the more I believe he will come to question the truth of what bin Grue told him.”

  “Could be, but after what you did to his court he’s still not exactly going to be ready to greet you with open arms if you come back this way. What I’m trying to say, Etjole, is that you don’t owe anything to a man who wants you dead. So we can concentrate on finding the real treasure and forget all this nonsense about returning some rarefied blue-blooded doxy to her family.”

  “Not so,” Ehomba insisted. At these words, the swordsman’s expression fell. “The Visioness Themaryl, whose safe return home I promised Tarin Beckwith to try my best to effect, is a scion of Laconda. Not Laconda North. She is of a noble family other than the Beckwiths. Therefore, whatever they may think of me, now or in the future, it does not affect my pledge.” Smiling apologetically, he turned and resumed course on a northwesterly heading. After uttering a few choice words to no one in particular, Simna moved to join him. The two hirsute members of the group hurried to catch up.

  “I guess you’re right, bruther. You’re no sorcerer. You just have learned friends and relations who give you useful things. So you have those to make use of, and the benefit of remarkable coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” Ehomba responded absently. At the moment, his attention was devoted to choosing the best route through the hills ahead.

  “Hoy. We find ourselves in a country where the fish swim through the air. Not knowing the properties of your other weapon, when I break free I automatically reach for the magical blade whose attributes I am familiar with: the sky-metal sword. But instead I grab the weapon that, it turns out, can give birth to the most monstrous and terrible fish in the sea.” Crowding his friend, he tried hard to make the taller man meet his eyes. “Coincidence.”

  Ehomba shrugged, more to show that he was listening than to evince any especial interest in what his friend was saying. “I could have made use of the sky-metal sword. Or this.” Lifting the walking stick-spear off the ground, he shook it slightly. A distant, primeval roar whispered momentarily through the otherwise still air.

  “So you could,” Simna agreed. “But would they have been as appropriate? The spear would have summoned a demon too large for the room in which we were imprisoned. The sky-metal sword might have brought down the walls and ceiling on top of us.”

  Now Ehomba looked over at his companion. “Then why did you want me to use it?”

  “Because we would have had a better chance of surviving the smashed rumble of a palace than a certain knife in the neck. Of course, once I threw you the sea-bone sword everything worked out for the best.”

  “I did not know you were going to fool your guards long enough to grab it and throw it to me,” the herdsman responded.

  “Didn’t you?” Simna stared hard, hard at his tall, enigmatic friend. “I often find myself wondering, Etjole, just how much you do know and if this unbounded insistence on an unnatural fondness for livestock is nothing more than a pose to disguise some other, grander self.”

  Ehomba shook his head slowly, sadly. “I can see, after all that we have been through together, friend Simna, how such sentiments could trouble your thoughts. Be assured yet again that I am Etjole Ehomba, a humble herdsman of the Naumkib.” Raising his free hand, he pointed to a nearby tree heavy with unexpected blossoms. “Look at the colors. I have never seen anything like that before. Is it not more like a giant flower than a tree?”

  Hoy, you’re a shepherd for sure, mused Simna ibn Sind even as he responded to his friend’s timely floral observation. In the course of their long journeying together, Ehomba had talked incessantly of cattle and sheep until on more than one occasion the swordsman had been ready to scream. A shepherd and a—what had the southerner called it?—an eromakasi, an itinerant eater of darkness. The question that would not leave the swordsman’s mind, however, was, What else exactly, if anything, was Etjole Ehomba?

  XXII

  When finally they crested the last of the Yesnaby Hills and found themselves gazing, improbably and incredibly, down at the great port city of Hamacassar itself, Simna could hardly believe it. To Hunkapa Aub and Ahlitah it was no cause for especial celebration. Despite its legendary status, to them the city was only another human blight upon the land.

  As for Ehomba, there was no falling to knees and giving thanks, or lifting of hands and hosannaing of praises to the heavens. Contemplating the fertile lowlands, the smoke that rose from ten thousand chimneys, and the great shimmering slash of the river Eynharrowk against whose southern shore the city sprawled in three directions, he commented simply, “I thought it would be bigger,” and started down the last slope.

  Their arrival occasioned considerably less panic than it had in landlocked kingdoms like Bondressey and Tethspraih. Reactions were more akin to the response their presence had engendered in Lybondai. Like Hamacassar, the bustling city on the north shore of the Aboqua Sea was a cosmopolitan trading port whose citizens were used to seeing strange travelers from far lands. At first sight, the only difference between the two was that Hamacassar was much larger and situated on the bank of a river instead of the sea itself.

  Also absent were the cooling breezes that rendered Lybondai’s climate so salubrious. Like the Lacondas, the river plain on which Hamacassar had been built was hot and humid. A similar system of canals and small tributaries connected different parts of the widespread, low-lying metropolis, supplying its citizens with transportation that was cheap and reliable. The design of the homes and commercial buildings they began to pass with increasing frequency was intriguing but unsurprising. As they made their way through the city’s somewhat undisciplined outskirts, they encountered nothing that was startling or unrecognizable. Except for the monoliths.

  Spaced half a mile apart, these impressive structures loomed over homes and fields like petrified colossi. Each took the form of an acute triangle that had been rounded off at the top. Twenty feet or so wide at the base, they rapidly narrowed to their smooth crests. Ehomba estimated them to be slightly over forty feet in height. Each structure was penetrated by a hole that mimicked its general shape. Seven or eight feet wide, the hole punched through the monolith not far below its apex.

  The mysterious constructs marched across the landscape in a broad, sweeping curve, extending as
far to the east and west as the travelers could see. They were not guarded, or fenced off from the public. Their smooth, slightly pitted flanks made them impossible for curious children to climb. Nor were they sited on similar plots of land. One rose from the bank of a wide, sluggish stream while the next all but abutted a hay barn and the third flanked the farm road down which the travelers were presently walking. In the absence of significant hills or mountains, they dominated the flat terrain.

  Leaving the road, the travelers took a moment to examine one up close. Beneath their fingers the pitted metal was cool and pebbly to the touch.

  “I don’t recognize the stuff.” Simna dragged his nails along the lightly polished surface. “It’s not iron or steel. The color suggests bronze, but there’s no green anywhere on it. Standing out in the weather like this you’d expect bronze to green fast.”

  “It would depend on the mix in the alloy.” Ehomba gently rapped the dun-colored surface with a closed fist. As near as he could tell it was solid, not hollow. A lot of foundry work for no immediately discernible purpose, he decided. “If it is not an alloy it is no metal I know.”

  “Nor I.” Leaning back, Simna scrutinized the triangular-shaped hole that pierced the upper portion of the construct.

  Hunkapa Aub pushed with all his weight against the front of the structure. It did not move, or even quiver. Whoever had placed it here had set it solidly and immovably in the earth.

  “What for?”

  Ehomba considered. “It could be for anything, Hunkapa. They might be religious symbols. Or some sort of historic boundary markers showing where the old kingdom of Hamacassar’s frontier once ended. Or they might be nothing more than part of an elaborate scheme of municipal art.”

  “Typical human work. Waste of time.” Ahlitah was inspecting the stream bank for edible freshwater shellfish.