“Ssu,” the Nininyal breathed. “Pray to all your Gods that this is not our destination!”
He turned to the other glass square on the side wall. It and the device above the forward console showed a different scene: a large cavern lit by smoky firelight, its vastnesses lost in the shadows beyond. Their “windows” gave an overview of the encampment; the egg-vehicle must have emerged upon an eminence of some sort. Several' human figures were visible in the foreground. These stood or squatted around a campfire, some eating, others talking, a few huddled in sleep. Five or six worked with skinning knives over a huge and unidentifiable carcass. A woman,, naked save for bone-white ornaments in her tangled hair, bathed in a circular pool nearby. Others stooped beside her to fill waterskins.
Below, a child ran out of the group by the fire. It came closer, halted, stumbled, and stared up in amazement. Then it scampered off screaming soundlessly, its stick-thin arms waving in terror. Some of the figures arose and pointed.
They had been seen. Here, then, was the reality outside, rather than the lonely landscape of the Ssu.
“Prepare yourselves,” Trinesh commanded. “You, Thu’n, or whatever your name is, can you open the door?”
The Nininyal touched a stud beside the portal, and it swung wide. Trinesh gestured to the three crossbowmen to wait, and to Chosun to hold their captives fast. He poked his head out.
“Not Yan Kor, this,” he reported to those inside. “Sand-worms—Milumanayani tribesmen—by the look of them.” He ventured a backward glance. “Come out here, Saina. If they serve the Baron, somebody’ll speak Yan Koryani.”
Their egg-thing seemed to have emerged upon a flat platform. Idols, fetish-poles, and white-daubed ritual baskets lay all about. The cavern was dark, but an ocher and green double shadow high up along one wall indicated that at least a part of the place was open to the two moons. It was night here—as it must also be at Fortress Ninu’ur if their journey had taken as long as it seemed. Trinesh could just see the joinings of ponderous masonry blocks, barrel-shaped sections of fallen columns, like sections of white Mnosa-root, and half-finished partition walls of smaller stones and rubble. A hundred millennia might have passed since this place was whole. All was wind-worn and drifted over with sand.
“We seem to have popped out right on top of their temple!”
“No chance of them taking us for gods,” Saina muttered without enthusiasm. “Even the Milumanayani are not that stupid.”
Trinesh tightened his grip upon his sword hilt. “Maybe a little overawing will serve.”
“Cha, I can smell them from here— No, it’s a dead Hmelu just in front of our egg-thing. A sacrifice?”
“I’d rather not be the next one.” Trinesh took a step forward. “Hoi, who speaks Tsolyani here?”
Those below stood frozen, gaping, murmuring, whispering. He sensed rather than saw the white gleam of bone-tipped spears, the leather slings, the clubs of spiky thomwood. He guessed the adults to number about fifty—maybe more. “Yan Koryani? Anyone speak that?”
“Tsolyani is good enough,” a voice called back. “I can do your talking for you.”
One of the figures detached itself from the group: a man, garbed in the same dun-hued leather desert-cloak as all the rest. He set foot upon the eroded staircase that Trinesh now saw led down from their platform to the cavern floor.
“Your name?” Trinesh snapped. The fellow spoke Tsolyani perfectly, his accent as good as Trinesh’s own. He was probably an escaped slave—a criminal of some sort, possibly a deserter from the army.
“I am Tse’e—‘outsider’ in the tongue of these folk.” Trinesh’s suspicions were correct. No honorable Tsolyani would fail to give his personal name, his lineage-name if he had one, and his clan.
“And where is here?” Trinesh asked.
“La, honored guest, you do not know?” The man spread his arms wide, his voluminous cloak flapping out around him like the wings of a Hu-bat. “Why, here you are inside the Wall of Tkessa Tkol, down in the cisterns where there is still water, even though its noble builders, the Priestkings of Engsvan hla Ganga, have long since departed and left it all to the Aya, the great worms of the desert.” He threw back his head and cackled. “Once this wall kept raiders and monsters away from the seacoast; now the rising of the lands has left it to shield us from the sun and the winds of sand!”
“His brain is as riddled as a log full of Oso-beetles,” Saina whispered.
“Likely so.” Trinesh did not take his eyes off the man, who was slowly edging his way up the stair toward them. “Ask within: has anybody heard of—what was it—the Wall of Tkessa Tkol?”
The Yan Koryani woman answered him. “I have read of it: an old place, a fortification erected by the Prefects of the North during the later Engsvanyali dynasties.”
“But a wall? We’re in a cavern.”
“Probably the cellar of one of the guard-towers that stand at intervals along the wall. Some of these were as large as palaces, I recall.”
Trinesh held up his hand toward the man outside. “Hold where you are! I must confer with my comrades.” He left Saina to watch and ducked back into the cabin to confront
Lady Belket. “Well, woman? You seem familiar with this ‘Wall.’ ”
“Not I, personally. But our agents come here to arrange passage south for our troops, when they go to fight the western army of your Prince Eselne.”
“What sort of place is it?”
‘‘There is no harm in your knowing.” She pulled free of Dineva’s grasp and pushed forward amongst the others to look up at him. She was almost of the same height, and he felt the softness of her breath upon his cheek. The effect was unsettling. “The Wall of Tkessa Tkol is more than two hundred Tsan long, as high as a Sakbe road-wall, and perhaps fifty—a hundred—paces thick. I am not sure. It served as a defense against raiders from what was then the sea. Its western end is anchored upon the ruins of the city of Ta’ure, and the Wall then wanders off eastward to vanish into the sands— who knows whither? We are still in the Desert of Sighs, in Milumanay^, but on the western side.”
“Cha! Where are we in relation to Fortress Ninu’ur? Can we march back?”
“Not even great Hrugga of the Epics could survive that stroll! Several hundred Tsan separate you from your men at Fortress Ninu’ur, Hereksa, a little far to bawl commands.” The Lady Belket moved closer in the crowded car, and her breasts brushed the hard Chlen-hide of his armor. “Go north, and you visit Akurgha, the Warlord of the oasis-city of Pelesar, the capital of this region—a wretched heap of mud-brick hovels and salt-sand. Go south, and you come upon our Yan Koryani legions—those who face Prince Eselne.” She gave him a sly smile, her eyes glittering in the shadows. “Here is your chance, brave Hereksa: you are now behind Yan Koryani lines and in position to deliver a smashing rear attack, you and your half-Semetl of heroes!”
He did not bother to reply. Saina was summoning him back outside. The man had disregarded Trinesh’ order and arrived at the top of the staircase.
He made an elaborate bow to Trinesh and another to Saina. “Ohe, ohe! Visitors! We have not had visitors for a very long time. A Tsolyani officer and his beauteous lady!”
Saina, bulky as any man in her grimy, sweaty armor, snorted.
Trinesh inspected the fellow. The firelight from below limned gaunt, hollow cheeks and a hooked nose that would have done credit to an aristocrat of the Clan of Sea Blue itself. The man’s right eye showed only white, a sign of Alungtisa, the blindness that afflicted many desert nomads. Trinesh guessed him to be elderly: certainly more than fifty summers and possibly over sixty. His accent hinted at the central Tsolyani plain—Bey Sii? Usenanu? Katalal?—and his etiquette was fine enough for any courtier at Avanthar. He seemed to be a man of breeding, a member of a good clan, possibly even noble.
The tribesmen outnumbered them badly, and they would surely lose if it came to a fight. This man's co-operation was vital; he alone could translate and thus procure them food, water, and a p
lace to rest. With proper courtesy, therefore, Trinesh gave his own names, clan, and title. He looked at the other expectantly.
The man said, “Tse’e. I am Tse’e. That is enough.” He waved a cloaked arm behind himself. .“These are the Folk of the Banner of Na Ngore.” He pointed past Trinesh. “There, soldier!”
Both Saina and Trinesh swiveled to look. Among the clutter of feathered fetish-poles, broken stone images, and baskets of rotting sacrificial food, a tall staff loomed higher than all the rest. A dirty blue-and-white rag swung limply from it. Trinesh made a questioning sound in his throat, and the man named Tse’e waggled bony fingers mockingly.
“There, Hereksa: the standard of the Engsvanyali Priestkings! Not the original, of course—that became dust long ago—but a fair copy!” He spread his hands expansively. “Here you have them: the descendants of the Priestkings’ soldiers, still on duty, still at Fortress Na Ngore, still waiting to repel the pirates of the deeps!”
What nonsense! Five—perhaps as many as ten—millennia had elapsed since the Priestkings’ island of Ganga had slipped beneath the southern sea! The Second Imperium, the Tlakotani dynasty of the Seal Emperors of Tsolyanu, had arisen from the resultant chaos, and the Seal had now held sway for more than twenty-three hundred years! Still, truth or legend, this Milumanayani clap-trap made a good story.
Trinesh looked down at the sea of grim faces, narrowed eyes, and half-hidden weapons. He decided to humor the old renegade. With as much dignity as he could muster, he raised his sword and cried out the only Engsvanyali word he knew: the salutation with which Lord Vimuhla’s priests greeted the god in the temple rituals.
“Otulengba Otulengba'.'' Trinesh’s memory failed him; he had never been much of a scholar. He finished lamely in Tsolyani. ‘‘We—ah—hail the defenders of the seas!”
From just within the egg-thing, he heard a derisive snicker from Lady Belket Ele Faiz and some snide comment from Chekkuru hiVriddi behind her. Then the tribesmen came surging up the steps, arms waving, weapons raised. Men shouted, women shrilled and gabbled, and children shrieked. He thought of resistance, then realized it was futile. He and Saina were surrounded, overwhelmed, plucked at, grasped, and handled. He could not see the others, nor the madman Tse’e. In a swirl of bad-smelling desert-cloaks and skinny limbs, he was manhandled down the steps, across the cavern, and over to the campfire. Faces reeled before him, hands, eyes, tangled braids that stank of rancid Hmelu-iai. He found himself seated upon a block of stone, encircled so closely by jostling bodies that he could barely breathe.
Tse’e forced his way through the mob. “Welcome, Hereksa," he cried. ‘You have done well indeed—better than the nonhuman Shunned Ones, who were our last visitors to arrive by tubeway car!”
Trinesh would have asked about those “Shunned Ones,” but other questions were more urgent. “What will happen to us?”
“Why, you shall be fed, given water, and guested with all of the pomp these heirs to the throne of Ganga can provide. You shall remain here—or you may walk home through the desert. I advise against the latter, not now. The sands can be crossed only during the colder months.”
It was now Pardan. Two months of autumn remained before TekumePs short—and still hot—winter season. Such a wait was unthinkable.
“We shall trouble these people for only this one night,” he declared. “Then we depart in the egg-thing in which we came.”
Tse’e looked uncomfortable. “You will not be allowed to set foot upon the station-pyramid again. It is a sacred place.” “We shall fight our way back up there if need be.”
“You are outnumbered by four—five—to one. Be patient, Hereksa, and join in the life of Na Ngore, as 1 have done. If you are determined to leave, a time will come when the hunters are absent and you may regain your vehicle by some ruse. Even if the car has been summoned away, you can call another, you know.”
Trinesh had not known. “How?”
“Three glass plaques are set in the floor before it, though they are likely buried under rubbish and baskets of offerings. Step upon the red one if no car is present; the yellow plaque lights when a vehicle is on its way; and the blue glows when a car is at hand and ready to depart.”
A young boy appeared to thrust a cup sloshing full of liquid into Trinesh’ hands, a cup that suspiciously resembled the cranium of a human skull.
“Drink it, man,” Tse’e urged. “They will not slay you once you have drunk their water and tasted of their food.” A shallow bowl that might once have been the bottom of a clay pot was laid upon his knees. “Eat! To refuse is to insult your hosts! Do not fear; tonight it is Hmelu-meat and not that of 'one who serves.’ ”
“What—?”
“You do not know? How little we Tsolyani care for the social niceties of our neighbors! The Folk of Na Ngore practice a custom that is not followed even by other tribes in the Desert of Sighs. Look, soldier, this is a harsh and deadly land. Food and water are scarcer here than Chlen-dung in the Hmperor’s Golden Tower. When a citizen of Na Ngore is old, wounded, or ill, he offers his body to his fellows. A quick knife across the throat, and the tribe has bone for its spears, a skin from which garments are made, hair to weave into other apparel, sinews to bind blades to shafts, a skull to use as a basin—a thousand other useful things. Naught is wasted. His flesh is also added to the stew-pot, so that his Vanh—his Spirit-Soul, what we Tsolyani call the Baletl—departs happy in the knowledge that even in death he serves his people.”
There was an outraged squawk from somewhere close by: Saina. Trinesh jumped to his feet, the platter slipping from his lap to smash upon the floor. He ignored the buzz of angry voices this evoked.
“Now you look, old man—Tse’e, or whatever name you hide under! We will not tolerate—”
A thin, sun-blackened hand pushed him back. “Learn something else, Hereksa}. The Milumanayani freely give all they have to anyone who needs it. They demand the same courtesy in return. Here no person has the right to possess more than another-—not permanently, not with the same nice legalities of ownership that obtain in our land. Some girl has probably taken a fancy to your soldier-woman’s armor, tunic, kilt—whatever. If she refuses to share, she will be seized and beaten. That is the law. Afterward, if she needs those items again, she has only to demand their return. The same applies to you; the only reason that you still have your weapon and your harness is because I am talking to you. It is impolite to interrupt a conversation!”
He spoke to the others around Trinesh and went away. A moment later he returned with Saina, scratched, a little bloody, and as furious as a Zrne-beast whose lair has been defiled by human-smell. She wore only her stained, dirty under-tunic, and she clutched a crumpled ball of brown-black leather to her ample breasts: a desert-cloak.
Trinesh leaned over and spat resignedly. “Do as they ask,” he called to his companions. “Later I think we can get it all back.” He sighed and began to remove his armor, passing each piece in turn to the eager hands stretched forth to receive it.
5
It was very dark.
Ridek could smell pitch, fragrant and resinous, like a Tiu-tree after the spring rains. There was also the scent of grass, growing things, damp wetness, and an underlying odor of something acrid and strange. He realized that he was cold, and he shivered.
Just ahead of him, amidst a tangle of brushy vegetation, a luminous circle hung in the air. It began to fade even as he watched.
He knew what he had to do: he gathered himself, tensed, and sprang toward it—into it . . .
. . .Into brightness. The sun blazed down upon him. But it was an ugly orange-red instead of the familiar yellow orb of Tekumel. He fell, rolled, and sat up gasping. He had almost tumbled down a steep, rock-strewn slope! He lay still for a moment to catch his breath, then squinted over the edge.
Aluja stood there below in a hollow, surrounded on every side by towering pinnacles of red-veined rock. The Mihalli held Lord Fu Shi’i’s amulet in one hand and a translucent, bluish globe
in the other. He took a few tentative steps in one direction, then returned and stalked off in another; he halted, looked about, then paced around in a gradually widening spiral. He appeared wary—confused?—and seemed to be seeking something.
Ridek staggered to his feet, dusted himself off, and began to descend the slope. He opened his mouth to call out, but Aluja whirled without warning and did something to his globe. A beam of sapphire light, as brilliant as a lightning flash, sprang forth from it, and the scarlet veining upon the boulder in front of him writhed and vanished without a sound. Ridek stared. The Mihalli turned to his right and fired again, then again. The words of greeting died in Ridek's throat. The red tendrils were not part of the rock. They were alive—and clearly dangerous!
He glanced down. Beneath his own feet the porous stone crawled with threadlike strands of viscous red, like the blood vessels in the white of a person’s eye! A tendril crept up to caress his boots with speculative interest, then surged forward. Others followed, little knots and fibers wriggling along over the grayish rock.
Ridek would have cried out, but it was too late. Only a dim oval swam in the air where Aluja had been.
He yelled the Mihalli’s name then, but to no avail. The little threads began to wind their way up his calves. Others squirmed after them, as tight to the surface of the rock as hair upon a man’s head. He jerked his left foot up, and the tendrils tore and popped. He did the same with his right foot, but the filaments inching about his left foot returned with greater agility than before. Above, the angry tangerine sun hung in gory splendor in a brass bowl of sky, a gentle breeze touched his face, and he could hear the cheerful noises of insects in the pulpy red-black trees beyond.
“Aluja!” he yelled. “Aluja!” The fuzzy gray oval shrank down to a dot and disappeared.
Ridek had always thought himself brave. He would not let these vein-things defeat him! Still, terror reared up unbidden to choke off his shouts, and he was surprised to find his eyes blinded with tears. Grimly he wrenched his feet free a second time, but it was more difficult. Again, and it was still harder. Soon he would tire, and they would swarm over him. What to do? He forced calmness upon himself, tensed his muscles, and jumped as high and as far as he could. There was a sward of russet-red grass—or what looked like it—a few paces away. If he could reach that . . . !
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