tory. There's nothing here the Faziris could want."
"We're here," said Jadira.
Nabul took the quarrel. "Western, I'd say. Bowmen from the Brazen Ring cities use leather fletching."
Other signs appeared. They found tracks of boot-shod feet, wide horseshoes, and two-wheel carts. A party of equipped men had been through this pass not long before.
Nabul was nervous. He scanned the high ground for lurking archers. He expected at any moment to see a two-span hardwood quarrel sprout from one of their backs. Fear is more contagious than the deadliest plague. The companions took to wearing their weapons, something they had not done since leaving Julli.
They camped on an easily defensible pinnacle that night. Marix watched the empty sky and worried. It was the time of the new moon. He had only fourteen days to find his liege lord's seal and get it to Tantuffa.
Uramettu, too, watched the sky. After passing supper in silence, she fretted and paced around the fire. Jadira tried to speak to her, but the Fedushite snatched up her spear, and stalked off into the night.
"What troubles her?" Jadira wondered aloud.
"Her lime of change," Tamakh said. "I imagine every time the moon renews our friend is tormented by the forces at work inside her. In effect, her conversion from a mortal woman to a werepanther begins again with each new moon."
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Stay quiet and distant. That is best."
The quiet soon put them all to sleep. The fire sank into a bed of coals and went out.
Rock clattered on rock, snapping Marix to wakefulness. He reached for his sword—the one Jii had destroyed. Filth! All he had was the efreet bow, and it wasn't strung. In any case, he was afraid to use it.
He fumbled at the neck of his robe. The bowstring was looped around his neck. Before he could get it, a hand closed over his mouth from behind. He yelled into the phantom palm. Nabul hissed in his ear: "Be still, you silly foreigner!"
The hand came off. "Filth to you!" Marix growled. "What are you playing at?"
"I heard something moving out there." "So did I."
"Are you armed?"
"I have the bow."
Nabul's grimace was visible even without moonlight or fire. "You go first," he said.
Marix stood and grabbed the bow. It was heavily recurved, and the force required to bend it for restring-ing made him grunt. Nabul poked him in the back. "Not so loud!" he whispered.
Marix gripped the bow and nocked an arrow. The string was so taut he wondered if he could draw it back to his nose. He looked at the unmoving humps that were Tamakh and jadira. Swallowing hard, he started toward where the scraping sound came from.
The pinnacle was only a few paces wide. Marix went right down the center of the path. He didn't want to stumble off the mountain—at least not before he shot himself with the efreet's gift. Nabul followed him, moving in Marix's footsteps so skillfully no one would have known that two men had passed this way.
Something darted out of the rocks below. Marix straightened his arm. Fear giving him strength, he drew the arrow back to his ear. Even more astonishing, the head of the arrow glowed blood-red.
A tall shape appeared on Marix's right. He swung and loosed the shaft. Even as his fingers let go, Marix realized that the shape was Uramettu.
"No!" he shouted. Uramettu froze, right in the arrow's path. The glowing missile flashed toward her. She ducked. The arrow rose, soaring well over her head to vanish in the rocks beyond. Marix closed his eyes and waited for it to circle around and strike him.
A hoarse/guttural cry rang out from the slope. Jadira and Tamakh sal up, roused by the cry. Uramettu turned and sprinted toward the sound. There was another noise, a rattle of metal on stone. Nabul darted past, his drawn dagger upraised like the scorpion's stinger.
Jadira found Marix standing with the efreet bow hanging limply from his hand. "What is it?" she said.
"I shot someone," he replied, astonishment in his voice.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
She grabbed his arm. "Come, let us see."
When they arrived, Nabul and Uramettu were standing over a body. The black woman put a toe under the corpse and rolled it over. Nabul recoiled. "That's not a man!" he said. Jadira bent to see.
It was not a man, but some sort of man-beast. The creature had a long, wolfish face covered with fur, yellow fangs, and high, pointed ears. It wore a heavy jerkin of leather, studded with circular plates. Woolen leggings covered its lower limbs. A short, thick-bladed sword was still sheathed in a shoulder scabbard. Just out of reach, as though flung there by its dying spasm, lay a steel sprung crossbow.
Nabul knelt and patted the beast-man's pockets. "What an ugly wretch," he said. He found a worn ring in the creature's belt pouch. "Smells bad, too."
Tamakh reached them, carrying a glowing brand. Its light showed them the efreet arrow buried deep in the creature's heart. It had punched through the jerkin as though the leather were soft butter.
"So that's it," said Tamakh. "Gnoles."
"Gnoles?" said Jadira.
"A squalid race, given to mercenary war and brigandage. Judging by this one's outfit and the previous signs we found, I'd say a band of gnoles was active in the mountains."
"How did it get here?" asked Marix.
"It was following me," said Uramettu. "I came across a trio of them down the valley. One had a wolf on a leash. They'd butchered a cow and were carrying haunches on their shoulders when the wolf smelled me. They gave chase, but I lost them all save this one."
"At least we know Kaurous's bow works," said jadira.
"I don't know that," Marix said. "It—I—aimed at Uramettu by mistake, but the arrow flew wild and hit this gnole-thing, which I hadn't even seen."
"Interesting. The efreet promised us that the weapon would never miss and always slay. But did it hit the gnole because it was an enemy? Or because you aimed at Uramettu? Or—"
"Must we bandy fine points of magic in the night over a stinking corpse?" grumbled Nabul. "It's so vile I can't bring myself to take anything save this ring."
"Ah, a principled fellow," Marix said under his breath.
Uramettu picked the gnole up by the front of its vest and hurled it down the mountainside. She picked up the crossbow. The stock had smashed when the gnole dropped it. She threw it after its owner.
"We'll have to be more watchful," said Tamakh. "Gnoles are vicious, but they're not unreasoning brutes. They're cunning, strong, and see as well as wolves by night. Some of us will have to stay awake and stand guard."
"I will," said Marix, "if someone will lend me an honest sword. Magic bows are not for me."
Jadira gave him the scimitar she carried. "I'll stay up with you," she said. "I've slept enough for one night."
With Uramettu's spear in hand, Jadira sat back to back with Marix on the path. Silent wariness surrounded them, and they remained alert till daybreak, when a heavy fog formed on the mountainside and enveloped them in damp and clinging mist.
Tamakh had fits of sneezing as they descended to the narrow valley between the two ranges of the Shammat. Nabul claimed they were caused by too many olives and dates. Marix diagnosed the sneezing as an ague brought on by the radical change in temperature. The poor priest wheezed and sneezed, his nose and cheeks getting redder and redder.
The trail bottomed out on a gravel road, well-worn but untended for a long time. The hungry donkeys cropped the grass that grew among the pebbles. Jadira said to let them graze; it might be a while before the animals got fresh, free provender again.
A definite tang laced the gray fog. Uramettu put her nose in the wind and said, "Smoke. Wood fire."
"Cooking?" asked Nabul hopefully.
She wrinkled her nose. "I think not. It's a dry fire."
The smoke smell came from the south, so they drove in the donkeys and headed that way. A stone's throw short of a league, they came in sight of thatched roofs and stone animal pens. It was a village of some
twenty houses. An obelisk erected in the square in the time of Sultan Wa'drillah identified the place as Chatal.
No man nor beast stirred in the single street of Chatal. The companions entered cautiously, holding their weapons and taking care not to give any alarm. The goat and sheep pens were empty. The shuttered windows of the houses showed no signs of life. Jadira, who was leading, stopped in the middle of the road and pointed at the chimney of one house. "There's the fire."
They knocked on the door of the house. Smoke wafted lazily in the damp air, sometimes dipping into the street. Tamakh sneezed. When they heard a stirring in the house, Marix and Nabul pushed open the door and went in. The others followed.
Inside they found half a dozen villagers barely alive. Three men slept like the dead, never noticing the sudden intrusion. A woman leaning against the chimney tended the weak fire. She was feeding it from a mound of filthy rags. Two children clung to her legs. Their faces, like all those in the house, were pinched with hunger.
"Greetings. We mean you no harm," said Marix. He dug an elbow in Nabul's ribs and the thief echoed his sentiments. The woman regarded them listlessly and did not reply.
"What's the matter with them?" Marix said. "Tamakh, are they bewitched?"
The priest sniffled and leaned over one of the sleeping men. He raised one of the man's eyelids. The fellow moaned and rolled over.
"Not bewitched, starved," said Tamakh. "For some time, too, I'd say."
"Eighteen days," murmured the woman by the fire.
"What?" Jadira sat on the hearth beside her. "You haven't eaten in eighteen days?"
The woman nodded. Her head sagged, and Jadira had to hold her chin up to hear her faint words. "That's when the horde of Ubrith Zelka came."
"The gnoles?"
Nod. "An army of beast-men, discharged by some northern warlord," the woman said. She swallowed dryly. "They killed our hetman and ran off all our stock. What food we had was stolen. Since then we've lived only on roots and gleanings from our gardens."
Jadira waved to Uramettu, who was carrying the food bag. She handed it to Jadira. "Find a pot," the nomad woman said. "We'll boil a pudding for these poor people."
Nabul rolled out a formidable iron kettle. Marix dipped water from the rain barrel and half-filled the pot. Into this Jadira dumped dates, honey, and torn-up bits of wheel bread. Uramettu hung the weighty pot on its hook over the fire.
"Where's some proper firewood?" Jadira asked the woman. The latter gestured feebly to a bin behind the chimney.
"Why were you burning these rags?" said Marix once the flames were stoked with good hardwood.
"My husband's clothes," was the answer. "He was hetman."
The woman's name was Murjess. The sleeping men were her brothers; the boy and girl her son and niece. Murjess had to be hand-fed the sweet pudding. She quickly gained strength, though, and soon was helping feed the children.
There was a scratching at the door. Tamakh opened it.
Outside were scores of gaunt, gray people of both sexes and all ages. Most held wooden bowls or clay plates. Their hunger-sharpened senses had smelled cooking, and the smoking chimney told them who was doing it.
"Food . . . food ..." they pleaded, pressing in toward the priest.
"What shall I do?" said Tamakh.
Marix tossed him the provision bag. "Hand it out," he said. "After all, it can never be emptied." Jadira was waving frantically for his attention.
"Don't say that!" she warned, too late. The people of Chatal heard. With fevered looks, they lunged for the efreet's magic bag. Tamakh held onto the strap as a dozen scrawny arms wrestled with him for possession of the bag. Sticks appeared, and blows thumped on shuttered windows. One set flew open, and more starving villagers began to climb in.
"They'll outflank us," Marix said. Out of habit, he reached for the scimitar he wore on his belt.
"There's enough for all! Enough, 1 tell you!" lamakh cried.
"They're too hungry to reason," Uramettu said. A pair of young men slipped in the window. She laid one out with a rap of her spear shaft. "They don't care if they kill us, as long as they get the bag!"
"Then give it to them!" said jadira. Murjess was crying, and the children started in, too. Marix parried staff blows, but didn't cut with his blade.
"We can't fight these poor wretches," he said, giving ground. They were all backed up to the hearth. Someone threw a plate. It hit Tamakh squarely in the forehead. He toppled sideways, releasing the bag and bowling over Jadira and Nabul. A low, hoarse cheer filled the throats of the villagers, but a fight began for sole ownership of the food bag. Hoes and staffs cracked on arms and heads.
"Stop! Oof, get off, Tamakh—stop it, I say! The bag can feed you all!" cried Jadira.
Blood flowed in the crowd. The bag was torn from hand to hand, slowly making its way to the door. Once it was outside, the starving mob pulled the leather container to pieces. Olives and dates spilled out. Loaves whirled through the air. Honey spattered in golden droplets to the dirt. The Chatalites scurried and grasped for every morsel, right down to the spilled honey.
When it dawned on them that the bag had been destroyed, a new sound filled their mouths: low, gargling fury, driven by the merest taste of food.
"Time to go," said Nabul.
"I agree," said Uramettu. She swept her spear point in a wide arc, keeping the snarling mob at bay.
They pushed Tamakh to his feet. Jadira picked up a lost herding staff. She couched it like a lance and murmured, "If we don't depart, these beggars may decide to eat us."
"Here. Over here," said Murjess. She held open a low back door. "Follow the steps up the hillside. There's a cave at the top. It will take you through the mountain."
"Thank you," said Marix. He slipped off the bow with new confidence and led the way. Jadira waited till last.
"Good-bye," she said. "I wish we could have been more help."
"They cut their own throats," said Murjess of her neighbors. "Go, and may the gods bless you for your kindness."
Jadira ducked through the door and was outside. Nabul called, "This way! Here, here!" He was many paces up a steep incline, standing on bare rock. She spied a series of steps cut into the face of the mountain .mil siarted after him.
The Chatal mob tore Murjess's house apart looking for more food. They even broke down the chimney. All this ,accomplished was to set fire to the house. The flames from the burning thatch were a sad beacon to the companions as they climbed to the cave and safety.
Wings
Just after passing the peak of the ridge, Marix paused and waited for his friends to catch up. They straggled up the crude steps panting for breath. Jadira was the last, and she sank down beside Marix. "They're not pursuing," she said gratefully.
"They haven't the strength," he replied.
"Neither—have we," gasped Nabul.
"There's a more serious problem," Tamakh said. "What do we do for food now, with the bag gone and the mountains picked clean by this band of gnoles?"
"Uramettu can—" Nabul began.
"—do little or nothing," the Fedushite finished for him. "These beast-men are like no creatures I have ever encountered. They have wolf-sense and can track me on a moonless night. It would be folly indeed to hunt where they are near."
Jadira looked back over her shoulder. "Is that it then? Are we to end like those villagers down there, starving savages?"
"Not if I can help it!" Marix declared. "By my ancestors, we came through the cauldron of the desert; we can come through the mountains, too! There are but a few days left before High Summer's Day. We—I—must get to Tantuffa before then."
"Well, we can't forage on our backsides," Tamakh said. Using Nabul's shoulder for support, he wobbled to his feet. "Shall we?"
They crossed the spine of the hill and skidded down the slope to a winding goatpath on the west face. Marix set a strong pace for them. Uramettu had no trouble keeping up, but the others faltered, and Marix had to slow his stride. By sundown,
they had traveled some fifteen leagues from Chatal, a remarkable distance for footsore and hungry marchers.
There was some discussion about where they should camp. Nabul and Tamakh wanted an easily defensible position, like the pinnacle they'd had the night before. Marix and Uramettu pointed out how easy it would be for a potential enemy to blockade and besiege them in such constricted space.
"Better to camp in the open, where there's room to maneuver," said Marix.
Jadira had the deciding voice. She listened, looked over the terrain, and said, "Let us stay in the open. It will be safer."
"Hardly impartial," muttered Nabul, glancing from Marix to Jadira.
They found a circular space twenty paces wide where coarse wool on the rocks and shrub branches indicated that sheep had been driven. Tamakh sneezed a bit, but they settled down in the center of the clearing. No fire was lit for fear of arousing the marauding gnoles.
Jadira lay awake, looking at the cloud-capped sky. Here and there a star peeked through as winds in the
upper air hurried the soft biack clouds along. She was nearly asleep when a voice said, "Piastre for your thoughts."
It was Marix. "You pay a high price for dreams," she whispered in reply.
"Since I have nothing, I can offer much. What were you thinking?"
"Flying. Isn't that foolish? I was lying here gazing at the sky and thinking about flying."
He slipped an arm under her head, and they nestled together. Marix said, "Do you prefer a winged horse, or a magic chariot?"
"Actually, I was wishing I had wings of my own. Great wide white things, feathered with stiff quills, ai-ha!" She waved an arm through the air with a sweep of imaginary feathers.
"Go t'sleep," rumbled Nabul.
"Sorry," returned Jadira.
"And where would you fly to, my desert falcon?" Marix asked softly.
"The ends of the earth," she said. Jadira turned suddenly and looked Marix in the eye. "But first, to Tantuffa."
"Of course." Marix touched his lips to hers. He snapped his head back. "What was that?" he hissed.
"Too brief a kiss."
"No, listen!"
She strained to hear what had so startled him. Nothing. Nothing. Then—a rustle, a flap. Jadira thought it was cloth snapping in the wind. Only there was no wind.
D & D - Red Sands Page 14
