by Allan Cole
A road began just beyond a thick grove of palm trees. It shot straight toward the volcano, then wound up its terraced sides—moving past tiny people working in the fields. The road continued through a series of small peaks, then dipped down into a wide, green valley cupped in the volcano's lap. A shallow blue lake filled one side, rippling along a rocky shore.
In the center of the valley—set on a peninsula that jutted into the lake—was a great golden castle surrounded by enormous walls. Within were several domed palaces, surrounding a massive keep that towered over all.
A second, lower wall ringed the castle's outer perimeter and Rhodes could clearly see the six gates that allowed traffic to pass to and from the castle. And a wide road leading past the domed palaces to the keep, where he knew Safar would take residence, since it was the greatest stronghold in the entire castle.
Looking through the king's eyes, Kalasariz examined the diorama with equal interest. Except for the castle, the valley reminded him slightly of Kyrania, which also featured a lake. The plant life was also different and Kyrania was set high in snowy mountains, instead of in the lap of a volcano. But those things aside, the number of similarities were surprising.
Clayre frowned at the scene. “That castle is going to be troublesome,” she said. “It may even make our job near impossible."
"Why is that, mother?” Rhodes asked, mildly amused at Clayre's foray into his world—the world of tactics and strategy and fortifications.
She snorted in disgust at her son's imagined stupidity. “Isn't it obvious?” she said. “Once the Kyranians get inside those walls there'll be no getting them out!"
Rhodes chuckled. “That's one way of looking at it, mother,” he replied.
"What other way is there of seeing it?” she demanded.
Another kingly chuckle. “That once the Kyranians enter the castle,” he said, “they'll have a hells of a time getting out."
He pointed at several places, saying, “We just have to put troops here ... and here ... and maybe a few siege engines over there ... and we'll have them thoroughly trapped."
Rhodes made a fist. “Then all we have to do is squeeze."
Clayre nodded, even smiling a little—pleased at his explanation. “But what about the Queen and her people?” she asked. “They certainly seem to be on Safar Timura's side. Surely she has more soldiers at her command then we possess."
It was Rhodes’ turn to snort. “They won't be any match for my boys,” he said. “We'll swallow them up and spit them out in no time."
Then he saw the tiny image of the airship rising toward the valley. He jabbed a finger at it.
"That's my main worry,” he said. “That damned airship again! It can bombard the hells out of us during the siege while we're sitting helplessly in the open."
Clayre turned to her son, smile broadening. “I've been thinking about the airship,” she said. “I even discussed the situation with our patroness, the Lady Lottyr."
"What was the result, mother?” Rhodes asked, hopes growing.
"That we won't have to worry about the airship much longer,” Clayre replied.
"That's good news, indeed,” Rhodes said.
"I'll need a few days to get things set up,” Clayre cautioned. “So don't move too swiftly and give yourself away before it's time to act."
Rhodes shrugged. “No bother there, mother,” he said. “I need a few more days myself before I'm ready."
Clayre nodded understanding. “You're waiting on Tabusir?” she asked.
"The very one,” Rhodes replied.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE HELLS MACHINE
On the surface it was a glorious procession. The beautiful queen, posing nobly in her ostrich chariot, led the way up the long winding road that climbed the volcano. Flower petals covered the road and they gave off a marvelous scent when crushed by the passing parade.
But the higher Palimak climbed the more worried he became. Some of his worries were natural—his father's blindness made him feel he'd once again had to shoulder a burden much too heavy for one so young.
Reason told him this wasn't the case—Safar's blindness in no way diminished his wizardly powers. Nor did his father seem to be affected physically apart from his sight problem. Actually, he seemed much stronger than before.
However, Palimak could not shake off the sensation that something was very wrong—both with his father and with the journey itself. He couldn't get a grip on what was troubling him.
Hadin's air was so full of wild bits and flashes of magic that he couldn't trace the source of what was troubling him. Some of it came from Safar, some from the queen and her courtiers, but most seemed to emanate from the road ahead, and from the towering volcano.
Stirring music still wafted down from the airship, as Biner followed the procession on high. There was more to Biner's choice of music than mere pomp and ceremony. It was also a signal that all was well as far as the lookouts aboard the airship could see. If any danger was spotted, Elgy and Rabix would begin playing fierce music full of trumpets and war drums.
As the procession moved along the road, farmers in the terraced fields stopped their work to see what all the noise was about. Clad in loin cloths and broad-brimmed straw hats to shield them from the sun, they all radiated a feeling of the inner peace that comes from tilling the land.
Then the queen led them around a sharp bend. Along one side were hundreds of nearly naked beggars all crying for alms and bemoaning their infirmities.
Palimak dropped back to tell his father about the beggars—although the loud cries they made surely enlightened him to what was going on. Safar nodded, then called for Renor and Seth who trotted up with large leather saddlebags bulging with silver coins. At Safar's signal they began scattering the coins to the beggars.
Safar had come into the queen's presence well prepared for any eventuality. Although he couldn't have anticipated the journey they were now on, he had guessed that they would encounter the kingdom's poor.
"There are beggars in every realm,” he'd said. “And whenever and wherever royalty is welcomed, the beggars turn out to test the visiting king's generosity. So if we want to make a good impression on this queen, we'd better be ready for her beggars."
And ready they were, with hundreds of silver coins being tossed into the air by Renor and Sinch. The two young soldiers went at their task eagerly, as if they were fabulously rich and dispensing their own wealth instead of Safar's.
They joked with the beggars, who all crowded around, blocking the road.
"Here's some for you, pretty lady,” Sinch said to an old woman—pushing the laughing mob back so she wouldn't be shut out.
The toothless granny cackled with delight, both at the coins in her palm and the handsome young man who'd given them to her.
"Pretty yourself,” the old woman said. “I'd rather have yer warmin’ me bed than take your money!"
Sinch laughed with much good nature, giving the granny a kiss on her dirty cheek.
A legless man in a push cart knuckled his way forward, crowding close to Khysmet. Renor stepped in to block his way gently and tossed three silver coins on the beggar's cart.
The man opened his mouth to thank Renor, displaying rotting teeth and a short stump of a tongue. The wet smacking sounds of thanks that came from his mutilated mouth were a horror to someone of Renor's inexperience. Like all Kyranians he'd lived such a sheltered life in the mountains that such things were unknown to him.
Renor suppressed a shudder. Then he felt overwhelmed by guilt for his reaction and pressed two more coins into the beggar's hands.
More horrible noises followed as the legless one pushed in closer. Another beggar stumbled over him, making him lose his balance and reached out wildly, grabbing Khysmet's tail.
The stallion grunted in protest at the rude handling, jerking forward. Several long strands of snow-white hair pulled loose: the legless beggar waved them in Renor's face and spewed more obscene sounds, as if the horse hairs we
re a fabulous gift.
To Renor's surprise, he heard Palimak shout to him: “Hold that man!"
It was as if all of Renor's brains had run out of his head, because for the life of him he couldn't figure out what Palimak was asking. He gaped about, dismissing the amputee from his mind to look for a man with all his parts.
Then Palimak came rushing up. “The beggar!” he shouted. “The one in the pushcart. Where did he go?"
For the life of him, Renor couldn't figure out why Palimak would be upset about someone so unfortunate that he even lacked legs. But he looked around as he was commanded and to his surprise he realized that the man he'd been ordered to find was gone.
In his stead other beggars were crowding in, crying, “Alms! Alms for the poor!” And, “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!"
Then he heard Safar call out, “Palimak! Get over here right away!"
And then the whole column became a confusion of soldiers and beggars that tied the road into a knot of chaos.
* * * *
Tabusir was a patient spy. He didn't mind waiting for his prey to come to him. As a matter of fact, he quite enjoyed the wait, planning many plans, anticipating the split second of enjoyment that came when he snatched a secret from beneath the very noses of his enemies.
Then there was the escape to dream about. The greater thrill was to slip away undiscovered and keep the secret of the encounter deep within your breast. Less exciting was to be discovered and to have to wrest yourself from the wrath of the discoverers.
Oh, to be sure, there was the thrill of the chase. But Tabusir had always considered a chase to be the result of his own failure to remain unobserved.
As all spies know, the ultimate value of a secret diminishes in proportion to the number of people who know it. And it is vastly diminished if the enemy realizes his secret has been revealed.
And so it was that when Palimak shouted, “Hold that man!” Tabusir felt diminished. He'd spent three days and two nights waiting for his chance to steal the secrets of the Timuras.
His scant knowledge of the local customs and dialect had only made his planning more exciting. All he knew came from the fishermen Rhodes had captured and tortured. Although Tabusir considered himself a master at language and its local nuances, the screams and groans of men in pain was no way to learn it.
Instead, he'd concentrated on the looks of the men. Ignoring their pain-twisted countenances, he had focused on their thick dark hair and sun-bronzed bodies. One of the men was toothless and his painful babble could barely be understood. This was what had given Tabusir the inspiration for his disguise.
If he pretended he couldn't speak, Tabusir reasoned, then he wouldn't be able to give himself away by using a faulty accent. To make sure people would think he was mute, he made a little device to fit over his tongue which gave it the appearance of being a stump. To further revolt anyone looking at him, he blackened his teeth with charcoal so they looked as if they were rotting.
Then all he had to do was dye his hair and stain his body with walnut juice so he'd look like a native and be able to mingle with the other beggars of Hadin. The cart, which he'd carried with him from Syrapis for just this purpose, had a false bottom that hid his legs.
Tabusir had landed on the island at night and had hidden the little boat among some rocks. Then he'd waited for Safar's arrival. It was the main topic of conversation among all the beggars. There was much excitement and anticipation of how charitable the great King Timura would be. Everyone also knew their queen would escort Safar to the Castle of the Two Kings and there was much dispute over the best place to wait for him.
When the day finally came, Tabusir followed the other beggars up the long road and took his place among them. When they'd seen his mutilated tongue no one questioned Tabusir's right to be with them.
As the grand procession moved past the beggars it had taken the sharp-eyed spy only a few minutes to realize that Safar was blind. It was the way Timura carried himself that'd given him away: a certain stiffness of the head, with the eyes staring blankly forward no matter what happened.
For instance, when he'd called his two men forward to disperse the silver coins, he hadn't looked at them when they came running up. Nor had he looked left or right as the beggars crowded close, crying for alms and singing Safar's praises.
The moment he caught Safar out, Tabusir had realized that even if he came up with nothing else for his king Rhodes would be mightily pleased with the outcome of Tabusir's mission. The spy smiled in anticipation of the fat purse of gold he'd receive as a reward.
Rhodes had also directed Tabusir to try to get his hands on some personal item from either Safar or his great horse. The coins the soldiers had dispensed might not meet that qualification, since there was a chance Safar himself had never handled them.
So he'd gone for the stallion, pretending clumsiness, then grabbing a few long hairs from the animal's tail as he struggled to regain his balance.
But then he'd heard Palimak shout and his perfect mission had been spoiled.
Now, as he sprinted down the road toward the place where he'd hidden his boat, he burned with resentment. What could have given him away? How had his clever disguise failed him? Then it came to him that Palimak—well-known for his powerful wizardry—must have used magic to ferret Tabusir out. Yes, that was the answer: Magic.
Still, it didn't make him feel any better. Perfection was his constant goal and Palimak had marred that perfection. But then, as he pulled the boat from the rocky cove, he wondered why no else had pursued him? It didn't make sense. Palimak had somehow discovered Tabusir's presence and yet he hadn't sent anyone after the spy.
Tabusir pondered on this while rowing toward Rhodes’ island hideout. The only answer he came up with was that something more important must have distracted Palimak.
The spy cursed himself for running away so quickly. He should have found a hiding place nearby to see what was so important to the young prince. As he thought about this he recalled Safar shouting something to Palimak. But Tabusir had been too busy getting away to hear what was being said.
He stopped paddling. For a long moment he seriously considered turning back. He could easily adopt some other disguise and again attempt to get close to the Timuras. But then he thought of Palimak's magic and decided against this plan. The young prince would be wary now he knew an enemy had come within assassination distance of his father.
Tabusir started paddling again. He wouldn't tell Rhodes about being discovered. There was no sense in spoiling his king's respect for his abilities.
It would be enough to inform Rhodes that Safar was blind. Then hand him the hairs he'd stolen from the stallion's tail.
Tabusir's failure would remain his own little secret. Thinking of it that way made him feel a whole lot better.
But then the good feeling vanished as he once again wondered why the Timuras weren't pursuing him.
He paddled onward, cold fingers of dread running down his spine.
* * * *
Rushing to answer Safar's call, Palimak pushed through the crowd of beggars to his side. Renor and Sinch accompanied him, shouting for the other Kyranian soldiers to help them untangle the mess.
"Gundara and Gundaree just spotted a spy, father!” Palimak said. “It's one of the beggars. A man without any legs. Or at least he's pretending he doesn't have any legs. But he's getting away, so we have to act fast if we want to catch him."
"Forget about the spy, son,” Safar said. Although his voice was calm, Palimak sensed extreme tension. “We'll worry about him later,” Safar continued. “There's something much more important happening."
Palimak frowned. “What is it, father?” he asked. “What's wrong?"
But no sooner had the words left his mouth than he felt a heavy, throbbing presence roil the magical atmosphere. All the wild bits of magic suddenly coalesced into a single deadly entity. An entity that was neither animate or inanimate. It just was. A soulless thing that somehow had a purpose.
&n
bsp; "Can't you feel it, son?” Safar demanded. “It's a machine. Just like the one in Caluz!"
Then Palimak remembered that fearful machine from the Hells and said, “Yes. I can feel it."
He looked up at Safar, mouth dry. “What do we do, father?"
And Safar replied, “There's nothing we can do—except go on!"
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
WHERE LOTTYR WAITS
When the procession topped the rise overlooking the Valley of the Two Kings the intensity of the machine's magic struck Safar with full force. He threw up a hand, as if protecting his face from a blazing sun.
In his nesting place Iraj was shaken to the core by the magical storm and its effects on his host. He said to Safar: Aren't you going to do something about this? You could make some kind of shield, like the one you used in Caluz.
At the same time, Palimak cried out, “We need a shield, father! But I don't know how to make one."
Jooli too was suffering from the magical blast. “Is this a trick, Safar?” she asked. “Has the queen led us into a trap?"
Meanwhile, Eeda was pushing her mount forward, Coralean at her heels. Her face was twisted in agony from the sorcerous assault.
"Please, Lord Timura,” she begged. “We must do something. I fear for the life of my unborn child."
Safar had rarely felt so frustrated. He knew where the machine was. As he turned his blind face from side to side he could easily spot the point of the heaviest magical concentration. But without visual coordinates to support him he was helpless to cast the shielding spells.
"Patience, my friends,” he said as reassuringly as he could. “I need to think."
Jooli guessed what was happening. She'd been as shocked as the others when Palimak had informed them of his father's blindness. However, as Palimak had assured everyone, magic rarely required the power of sight. He had said that Safar's wizardly powers were unaffected by his infirmity and they could proceed as planned.
But Jooli's deep studies of magic, plus her instincts, told her this situation presented a unique problem. To build a shield one not only needed to know the location of the danger, but also the location of everyone you wanted to protect. To accomplish this the sorcerer needed eyes.
