Polychrome

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Zenga’s mouth tightened, and for a minute I thought she might continue speaking. Despite her apparent easy acceptance of my embarrassing predicament, things hadn’t been entirely comfortable between us since I’d turned her down.

  But she gave a barely audible sigh and tried again, very quietly this time. “What are we doing here?”

  “You mean, as compared with other possible locations?” She nodded. “This area is right near the border of the Nome Kingdom, Gilgad, and the land of Ev. The Wheelers and a couple of other groups squabble over control of part of the area, even though it’s really part of the Kingdom of Ev.

  “The Wheelers and their allies make ocean shipping possible but a nuisance, so most of the commerce between Gilgad and Ev comes along the border of the Nome Kingdom — but doesn’t actually cross over, because the Nomes have a notorious dislike for uninvited intruders.” I gestured at the high rock walls surrounding us. “This particular valley happens to be one of three which end up funneling a large portion of trade directly through them… and this one is nearest the Nome Kingdom, and so avoided as much as possible. But it’s also the most direct, and thus used by people in a hurry.”

  Zenga nodded her understanding, and her reply was almost too loud, but she quieted herself without reminder. “Ah! And so the most desperate… or those with the most valuable cargoes — are the ones to use this route.”

  “And thus are exactly the targets that certain forces are going to be going after.”

  “And you think –”

  “I’m sure.”

  Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. But I had a good feeling that if I was going to find what I was looking for, it would be here.

  He would be here.

  We waited quietly, patiently. With Zenga’s help and the memory of Nimbus’ training — and some of what I could dredge up from camping with my father … was it over 30 years ago? … we’d put up an entirely mundane shelter and blind, concealing us from sight and sense in a manner that I hoped would be “under the radar,” so to speak, for beings that played in a more mystical realm. Zenga being mostly mortal and physically close by should minimize the chance of her being sensed.

  Time passed. I knew that this was a waiting game; even if I was right, our passage would have been noted, though the details of that passage would — hopefully — not. Good guys and bad guys both would be waiting to make sure no one else was around.

  The waiting was not easy on either of us, I suspect. It certainly wasn’t easy on me, being that close to Zenga and, ironically, far more aware of her presence now than I’d allowed myself to be before. And yes, that one part of me was regularly kicking me for being a blind romantic idiot. But what I’d told her was still true.

  “Hst! Lord Erik!”

  Her eyes were sharper than mine — no surprise that, given age differences, even with Iris Mirabilis’ thoughtful rejuvenation of my inborn lenses. A tiny movement was visible at the northwest end of the valley, the Ev end. “Looks like a small caravan — ten wagons, maybe.”

  She nodded. “So we wait a bit longer?”

  “See how things go. Yes.”

  The little group of wagons trundled slowly closer, moving along a narrow trail that was well-defined by the passage of countless prior travellers. I could see outriders in front and on either side, watching, scanning. So far they had seen no sign of opposition, but their movements showed that they were nervous — quick movements, a little too quick and jerky.

  Even the best eyes would not have helped them in this situation; we’d been here for days, but even we were taken completely unawares when innocuous boulders suddenly flickered and transformed into two dozen bowmen, with another dozen men carefully spaced around the perimeter, three on either side front and back, who — with very nasty grins — pulled out the logs that held back carefully-engineered artificial landslides.

  Even the outriders had been taken utterly by surprise; the front and rear went down under the masses of granite, and the others froze, realizing they were in a perfect crossfire.

  “What?” Zenga whispered. “Not any of the Temblors or Tempests?”

  I shook my head, watching. “For the most part, Oz has kept its word not to interfere; I ran into a sort of independent operation, I think. No, this is more home-grown banditry, but bolder, knowing there’s no power around that can afford the effort to wipe them out.”

  “Shame about those two!” a cheerful voice called out. We could now see, stepping into view atop the front roadblock, a flamboyantly dressed man in a red and gold cloak, a slender circlet of gold in his black hair. “Doing their jobs a bit too well, or not well enough… that’s the problem, you see, over-eager and undertrained. Unlike my men, I think you’ll agree.”

  The man on the lead wagon stood slowly. “Very well, you’ve caught us. And killed two good men while you were at it. I’d prefer to avoid bloodshed.”

  The cheerful man’s laugh was somehow sinister. “I’m sure you would, I’m sure you would. So you’ll be turning over your cargo to me, then?”

  “I do not see how I can prevent you. We could fight, and perhaps kill some of you, but…” he gave an expansive, futile gesture.

  “A man of reason! How excellent. Then you and your people will move away from the wagons — leaving your weapons, of course. And any valuables.”

  The leader of the caravan waved downward to the others. The outriders began to move in, tossing their spears and bows to the ground, but one rode near to the leader, who stiffened and turned. “Pardon me, sir, but might we know your name?”

  “How… courteous of you. Though a shame you needed a reminder in courtesy from your own outriders.” The crowned man gave a deep, elaborate bow. “I am known simply as the King of the Road, and these are my kindly Highwaymen.”

  Oh, crap. There were of course a lot of brigands working these routes, but even in that group of bastards, this one stood out. The few who’d survived meeting him and gotten to Gilgad had described scenes of slaughter and depravity as terrible as any I’d heard of from the mortal world — which made this guy even worse from a Faerie perspective. Something like him couldn’t have existed years ago, and I had a grim suspicion as to why he could now.

  “We have to help them!” Zenga hissed.

  I hated to give up our concealment, but if — as it appeared — the leader of the caravan was about to change his mind, he’d need as much help as he could get, now that over half his people were already disarmed.

  “ENOUGH!”

  The new voice was deep, sending rumbling echoes chasing themselves around the valley, and yanking everyone’s attention upward, gazing at a point in the valley directly across from where Zenga and I sat in our blind.

  A single figure stood atop a tall spire of stone, grey cloak streaming out in the wind, a polished staff of stone gripped in one hand, head concealed within a deep cowl. “These people are under my protection now, O King. Stand aside and let them pass.”

  The King of the Road shook his head in an exaggerated double-take, shading his eyes and gazing about in a dramatic pantomime of disbelief. “Truly, your men conceal themselves marvelously, for even now I cannot descry their positions; yet surely you must have many men indeed to contest my rulership of the road, for only a madman would dare do so alone.” Then it was his turn to stiffen, momentarily, and he continued, “Only a madman… or the Penitent.”

  The grey-cloaked figure gave an ironic bow.

  All humor and civilized veneer vanished in that instant. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

  Now I held Zenga back. I had to see. I had to be sure.

  The Penitent vanished from the stone in the instant the King shouted, vanished as though he had never been there as a storm of arrows screamed through the space his figure had occupied. The caravan took advantage of this distraction, grabbing up their weapons.

  The grey-cloaked form materialized — there was no other word for it — from the dusty greyness of the ground, near to one of the archers, an
d struck with his staff, shattering the bowman’s weapon and then laying him flat on the ground. He leapt and rolled aside as though the cloak enclosed not a man but a ball, tumbling nimbly down the slope with an erratic, almost impossible-to-follow motion that confounded the efforts of the other highwaymen to strike with bow or catch with desperate sprints.

  The King of the Road flung out his hand, muttering something too faint to catch, but I could see a poisonously green powder fly forward. Virulent emerald leaves sprouted from the dusty ground, transforming into spiky vines that reached and grasped, slowing the Penitent, pulling at his cloak. The same vines avoided the King as he leapt down among them, drawing a black, serrated sword and striding with a cold, cruel grin towards the Penitent, who brought up his stone staff and prepared to meet the bandit leader — despite the still-growing thicket of vicious vines.

  “That is our cue,” I said.

  We burst from our concealment and charged down on two Highwaymen who had engaged one of the outriders; he barely had time to curse before Zenga’s double-bladed cut took off his head. The others raised the alarm, and the King of the Road’s eyes narrowed as he took in my glittering crystal armor and Zenga’s terrible dancing blades. “More uninvited guests! What a bothersome day. But at least it shall end with a considerable nuisance dispatched.”

  The Penitent was not cooperative, however; though the vines hampered his every move, still he managed to parry the strokes of the black blade. He was unable to strike back, though, and it seemed clear that eventually the King would find an opening.

  We were in better condition, however, as the combination of the Penitent’s distraction and our sudden appearance had allowed the caravan to start fighting back in earnest. The attackers were no longer in an overwhelmingly powerful position; if the archers on our side turned to focus on the caravan, they were open to our assault, and if they focused on us, the caravan’s archers could target them. Most of the caravan’s people were now on our side of the wagons, making the other archers essentially useless; they’d have to come down and engage hand-to-hand.

  One of the bigger bruisers came at me; I ducked aside, took a blow on the armor that stung, and did a leaping kick that took him right in the temple; I winced inwardly as I felt the impact, and though I knew this guy must’ve done things that would earn him the death penalty, I still hoped I hadn’t killed him.

  But that left me an open path towards the still-widening sea of twining greenery. “Zenga! Keep it up!” I called, and sprinted downward.

  “Lord Erik! Look out! You’ll –” she was forced to stop her warnings as two more of the King’s Highwaymen engaged her.

  But I focused my will and strode forward. As they reached towards me, the vines abruptly stiffened, then fell limp, shriveling at the merest touch. A massive, thorn-covered tentacle lashed out; I slapped it aside, hard, and it broke and shattered like an ancient, dried-up branch. The King whirled in disbelief, seeing me coming through his deadly tangle as though walking through a harmless garden. “Wh--what…”

  The stone staff lashed out and cracked with bone-breaking force on the brigand’s left arm. The King restrained a shriek of agony and struck back, forcing the Penitent back on the defensive, and then leaping away, sheathing his sword. With his good hand he pulled forth a black sphere, an oversized marble that seemed to have a faint red glow at its heart, and drew back his arm. “I do not know… who you are…” he said, in a pain-wracked voice far different from his prior false urbanity, “but perhaps I will learn from your corpse!”

  The sphere bulleted forward, and instinctively I put up my hand. It smacked solidly into my palm and my fingers curled around it as though catching a tennis ball. I held it up and studied the now-greying sphere, the light within fading away. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  The expression of disbelief on the King’s face was almost comical. I smiled back. “Here, catch.” I pitched the sphere back at him.

  Reflexively he raised his own hand, realizing too late that it had become the same red-tinged black as soon as it left my hand. On contact the glassy sphere detonated in a flare of searing red flame and dead-black smoke.

  That was more than enough for the Highwaymen; seeing nothing but a greasy column of fire where their leader had been, they broke and ran. The singing bows of the caravan made sure that few of them completed their escape.

  On the self-proclaimed King’s death, the vines too had died. The Penitent emerged from the collapsing thicket and nodded. “My thanks to you, stranger. And strange indeed you are. Still, it was good fortune you passed by.”

  “No fortune — as I suspect you already guess,” I answered, seeing Zenga coming down towards us. “I was in search of you, and knew from the stories that this was the sort of place you must be found.” Up close, it was clear that the Penitent was very short, little more than half my height, though his movements and actions had shown great strength and considerable length of arm.

  The caravan’s people were now tending to each other; they would surely come to us shortly, but for now we were alone. The Penitent glanced in their direction, and then back to me, face still concealed within his cloak’s hood. “And for what purpose do you seek me, stranger?”

  “I need you to guide me where no other can lead, Penitent. I need you to show me the way to the Nome King’s door, give me entry to his kingdom.”

  He gave a laugh, one I thought might be tinged with bitterness. “He welcomes few to his lands at all, stranger, and even fewer who seek his door uninvited. What makes you believe I could even do as you ask?”

  “I believe so because I know who you are, Penitent, and why you bear that name and do these deeds. Because you were once much as those who rule Oz now are, and you have come to regret that.” He had frozen and stood still, now, still as stone. “Because you were driven from that kingdom and now walk its borders, alone, homeless, friendless save for those you protect, yet never one of them, because you seek to make up for sins they cannot know.” Zenga’s eyes widened as she realized what I was saying. “Because you are Ruggedo, once Roquat, the Red, who once was King of the Nomes.”

  Chapter 32.

  For several moments — that seemed to be an eternity — the Penitent stood stock still, gazing at me from within his shadowed cowl. Then, very slowly, he raised his hands and pulled the hood back.

  Fierce, proud onyx eyes under wide, snowy brows met mine, from a face as seamed and lined as the earth around us, and much the same grey-brown color, the shade of rock and stone and dust, yet with an undertone of flesh and a hint of pink on the cheeks. Wild white hair framed his face and a great beard flowed down from his chin, vanishing within the folds of a robe clearly cut to conceal these features. “You have named me, stranger, by both the name I chose and the name I once bore. How, then, are you named?”

  “I am Erik Medon.”

  He nodded slowly. “An unusual name…and your appearance, even more so. From what realm do you hail?”

  “From the city of Albany, in the State of New York, of the United States of America in what you call the Mortal World.”

  The brows raised. “So. The world from whence came the Girl.” I had no doubt who he meant by that. “Yet you are not Her. Different, I think, much different.” He glanced up and saw that the caravan survivors were beginning to approach; he pulled the hood over his face again. “Follow me, then, and we shall speak more. I promise you nothing beyond that.”

  Good enough. “As you wish,” I answered, and saw Zenga fall in behind us.

  I focused on following Ruggedo and tried to minimize my disruptive Mortal nature; I suspected that he was using some native Nome magic to essentially disappear into the rocks, and as I followed him this was confirmed. Pathways appeared just ahead of him and closed behind, leaving no trace of our passage, going straight where normal men would go around, climbing at impossible angles yet seeming flat and level. By the time he stopped, in a shallow cave set in a mountainside overlooking the forests of Gilgad, I had lost track
of where we were. Zenga was staring around in awe, realizing that somehow we had crossed mountains in minutes.

  Ruggedo threw back his hood and let his beard hang free as he took a seat on a rude stone chair. “From the Mortal World you may have come once, Erik Medon, but the armor you wear is of no mortal make; its substance cries out its Faerie nature. So you have been here for some time, and won some favor in the eyes of powerful forces.

  “But there are few powerful forces in Faerie these days. You seek the Nome King, so he is not your patron. Gilgad, strong though she is, has no true Faerie power. This is not the work of the Sea Faeries. Most of the other kingdoms have no power, or else none of the will, for this work. That leaves but two possibilities: that you are from Oz, an emissary of the… new regime, or that you have come from the Rainbow Lord Iris himself. Truly does your armor have the mark of a Sky Faerie’s work, but Ugu and Amanita have such bound to their service. With whom are you aligned, and what proof have you of your allegiance?”

  I drew forth the Jewel and once more it painted rainbow glory and song through the air. The former Nome King’s head bowed slowly, almost unwillingly, as though he had both hoped for and feared that answer. “So, indeed. And by this I know you have been sent as his first move against the Usurpers themselves. What …” his eyes narrowed, and then he smiled, and laughed, a startling deep, jolly sound that recalled the original description, likening him to Santa Claus. “Ho, ho! A True Mortal, I’ll bet my golden buckles on it! Thus you walked through that enchantment of the self-styled King of the Road, cast his spellsphere aside as though it were the merest pebble! I am right, am I not?”

  I bowed, unable to restrain a grin. “You are no less clever than I hoped, Ruggedo.”

  “Flattery, always a good start.” He turned to Zenga. “But I have been terribly remiss in my manners. You know my name; might I be honored with yours, my dear?”

  Zenga glanced at me; I nodded. “I am Zenga, daughter of Inga and Zella of Pingaree.”

  “Princess Zenga!” Ruggedo might be living in the wilds, but it seemed that didn’t keep him from keeping up on the news. “What an honor, my dear, and I must apologize for the state of my quarters. So you have made one… no, two other alliances, for I know well the work of Gilgad and your other equipage is clearly of royal make. Gilgad and Pingaree stand with you and Iris. Well, well, well.” He studied us both. “A momentous quest you are on, my friend. Is there truth in rumors I have heard, that a Prophecy was made that may lead to liberation?”