Should he kill a dozen men over what might be an error in translation? If the girls were going to the cook pot, why weren’t they chained or caged? Why weren’t they crying? If they were brides, why weren’t they giggling? Whatever their fate, they were leaving their homes. Why did they show no emotion?
Think as he would Bardon could not resolve the dilemma. Again he was enraged with himself for his inability to act decisively. He was the paralyzed witness to events rather than a leader. Still the offspring of a played-out bloodline: marrin hound.
While he whipped himself for not making a decision, the chance to decide was taken from him. He saw Caranga striding along the quay toward the black warriors. He could not understand what the old man shouted at them, but it was clear they did for they shouted back and raised their spears. The black pirate raised his sword and charged the black warriors. He was lost in a tangle of bodies.
“Archers!” Bardon bawled. “Hold your shafts. Swords: Attack!”
His own sword was out and he rushed into the battle. Two spearmen came at him and he recognized clumsiness. They were badly out of practice. He sidestepped the first and split the second man’s belly. The dying man fell against his comrade and before the latter could recover Bardon’s sword clove him. Peripheral vision showed Bardon a spearman coming at his back. He couldn’t turn in time, but it didn’t matter. It was only the falling corpse of a man Alpheg had slain. A spear came at his head and he parried easily. His sword’s sharp edge bit through the wood and the warrior was looking foolishly at his broken spear when Bardon slashed his throat.
Abruptly it was over. Vixen’s crew came running to a battle, and arrived at a tangled pile of corpses. Caranga, who had slain most of the cannibals, stood in triumph upon the dead. His gaze fell on Bardon, and his eyes were angry.
“I’m an old lion, but I’m still a match for twelve jackals.”
The reprimand angered Bardon. “Sir, I grant these men were so unskilled you could have dealt with all of them, but how was I to know? They could have been twelve skilled warriors.”
“Their bearing and stance should have told you,” snapped Caranga. “Besides it’s plain reason that if they were fighting men they wouldn’t need to buy meat.” His eyes softened. “Well, you meant well, and probably you saved me from being shot by my own men.”
Watching Caranga walk away, Bardon fingered his moustache and weighed that faint praise from a reformed cannibal. Slowly a dangerous resolve grew in the mind of the second mate of Vixen. Captain Tiana was gone: dead or in the hands of Sarsis. She had left Bardon in command, and Caranga had come off his sickbed to relieve him of that fleeting importance. Now Pyre had supplanted them both. Pyre!
I am through being errand boy for Caranga and cat’s-paw for the “wizard of wizards!” Sink the risk! I will face this arrogant lord of dark enchantment and force the truth from him . Cud of the cow — my ancestors cry out from their barrows for me to do something!
The resolve was strong when Bardon started toward the wizard’s cabin. When he reached its door, it occurred to him that Pyre might not be alone. For a moment he hesitated. He had no desire to meet the owners of those awful voices he had heard. With a hand on the latch, he re-encouraged himself, and thus self-supported, jerked open the door and swung into the cabin.
He found Pyre alone. The wizard sat bolt upright in a chair, and he did not move. His eyes were droplets of onyx fixed on infinity. In short mauve cape and floor-length robe of dull black that clung to his lean frame, he was obviously not breathing. Bardon touched the hand on the curling arm of the straight chair, and found those long lean fingers hard and cold. A shudder ran through him.
But wait — surely the mightiest of wizards was not dead. His soul must have departed his body, sent forth.
Last night he talked to others, who visited him, Bardon mused. Now he has gone to visit others. Tugging up his mailcoat’s skirt behind, Bardon sat down to wait. It was not easy to sit in the domain of a sorcerer and await the reanimation of a lifeless body. Far from comfortable, Bardon shifted with a jingle and clink of metal links. He rearranged the position and hang of his belt three several times. His headache returned, running up his back and into the left side of his head.
The wait was not so long as it felt. Without any sort of preamble Pyre’s bird-of-prey eyes focused on the younger man.
“Why do you trespass here?”
Bardon’s anger proved stronger than his fear. “I come to make two demands,” he said, and his head pounded. “First that you remove this accursed ring from my ear. Second, you shall explain the mystery of this evil city.”
“Your first demand I refuse,” Pyre said, sitting spear-straight and moveless — but breathing again. “I gave you the Star of Avan and it is not my custom to take back a gift.”
“Then I’ll have the ship’s carpenter cut the metal.”
“The Star of Avan is forged of ice metal, young sir. It cannot be cut. The carpenter would only spoil his tools and his equanimity.”
Bardon slapped his thigh in frustration and anger. “I don’t care if the ship’s cook has to cut off my ear to remove this thing!”
“Bardon, Bardon. They are your ears and certainly you may do with them what you please. To remove the Star of Avan, however, you will require the services of a headsman’s ax. Surely you agree that is a bit … drastic. After tonight I can take back the Star, but you will be happier if you accept my generous gift. As to your second demand, already you know too much. I shall tell you a little more anyhow.” It was godlike condescension, and Bardon seethed even as Pyre rose. “I have, however, been long in the position. A moment.”
The wizard sucked in a deep breath and turned his head leftward, farther than any man should have been able to do. Slowly he returned it to the fore, nodded deeply, and nodded backward, so that his crown pointed at his heels. Then he slowly turned his head far, far to the right. And back, and nod and nod. He looked at the seated man, bristly black brows mildly arched above supercilious eyes that were bright as garnets in sunlight “Now. Sonul seems a strange city to you, naturally — because it is not truly a city. More accurately it is a people ranch. The — ”
“A what?”
The wizard made a vaguely impatient gesture and continued. “The strange customs here, the lack of either wealth or poverty, the unusual psychology … all are explained by the fact that the people of Sonul are domestic animals, bred for docility. There are no walls around the city because in the event of war the Rulers of Sonul would defend themselves, not their herd. There are, among the people of Sonul, no sick or aged because — ”
“Merciful Theba!” Bardon exploded, his eyes wider than normal. “The inhabitants here are slaughtered while they’re still young and healthy!” Even as he spoke the ghastly words he knew them for truth — and could not quite believe them. “But … but the Rulers of Sonul … what manner of monsters are they?”
“Not monsters, Bardon. Merely our enemies. I brought Vixen to this port that we might fight a battle in an agelong combat, the Shadow War.”
“The Shad — I don’t understand. Are not wars by definition always open and public?”
The mage shook his head slightly, replied blandly. “On the contrary,” he said, with the faintest hint of mockery in his voice. “Wars are always as secret as possible! It is merely that the means commonly used are clumsy and conspicuous.” His beard, only a patch of salted pepper under his mouth, twitched as he spoke. “Often I have looked in my glass and laughed to see ten thousand stomping oafs in clanging armor trying to surprise another such army, which in turn is trying to surprise the first army. Often the blind fools wander for days in search of each other. The Shadow War is fought by subtle means and so is a secret to common man. You, Bardon, are a fine example of a weapon in the Shadow War. You hold yourself in contempt, you see, and I have arranged for the enemy to accept you at your own valuation. No no; don’t interrupt just yet. Such a proven fighting man as Caranga they would watch with great car
e. He could do little against their defenses. Against you they will not even guard. Tonight then, when you and I and Caranga go to the House of Rulers with seven others, you — ”
“Wait! Did you say seven others? The Rulers gave permission for only six — ”
“True, but the beastmen who guard their door cannot count that high. No one thinks of everything, you see — almost no one. Tonight, when we go to the House of Rulers, it will be you who takes the Sword of Avan and by mighty deeds prove yourself a great warrior.”
Bardon swallowed, stared. What the wizard promised was what he desired more than life itself. For a moment his suspicions waned. Still, he was Bardon, and uttered first his favorite word:
“But how? I suppose you can shield your mighty mind, and the others don’t know your plan, but the Rulers will know everything as soon as they look into my mind.”
Bardon had not noticed until now how large the wizard’s eyes were. “That’s no great problem. From now until well after we enter the House of Rulers, you will do no thinking.”
Bardon blinked his mild, troubled eyes for what seemed a rather long moment — and he was standing again in the narrow room with the two doors. The voice spoke in his ear.
“Hurry man, get the sword ”
At first glance the dark ceiling seemed to be empty. “But what if it’s not there?”
“Then the Rulers have outwitted me, and we are all dead men.”
Fear gripped Bardon, not fear of death, but fear that his life might end with a disastrous failure. He had failed too often already. His head tightened.
The sword was still in place. He felt a strange thrill when his fingers grasped the hilt. He was aware of a sensation of rapidly increasing skill and coordination. More than that, it was as if long-dead instincts were awakening. Because it felt the right thing to do, Bardon strode to the first door and touched the knob with the point of his sword. There was a click and the door was open. In his ear the voice of Pyre whispered, bidding him do all the things he had just done. Faster than Pyre could give instructions he was racing through the labyrinth of tunnels that was the House of Rulers. Locked doors opened at the touch of his enchanted blade. When he met guards, they died swiftly.
While Bardon fought, Pyre negotiated. Though Bardon paid little heed, he could hear most of what was said. The wizard stood in the audience room and spoke not to the figure on the throne but to the black velvet curtains behind the throne.
“It is true that I am on one side of the Shadow War and you the other, but in the past there has been peace between us. The Rulers of Sonul have wisely been content to defend what was theirs and have not joined with others in attacks of human kingdoms. I have punished the others when they went too far, but I have never caused the cold wind to blow upon Sonul. I recognize the greatness and nobility of your ancient race and I have no wish to harm you.”
From behind the black curtain a hissing voice asked, “You do not resent that we keep humans as food animals?”
“Of course not,” Pyre replied. “You manage your herd very well. The people here live longer and much more comfortable lives than in most human kingdoms. There is no reason for war between us. Sarsis seeks to return and thus disturb the balance. I must deal harshly with him but this need not concern you.”
The hissing voice said, “We are a dying race. You and your kind have stolen the world from us. Others have fought to regain what was stolen, but we of Sonul have not fought for we wish our last years to be peaceful.”
“Time, not man, stole the world from you,” Pyre said in a calming tone. “Even here in the tropics it is not warm enough for your race.”
The hissing voice was louder, angry. “Ssarssiss can change that. Ssarssiss can make the world warm again.”
“Nay, but I will not permit it. I will destroy the Eyes of Sarsis and send him back into the gulf of outer night to wander blindly forever. There is no need for the Rulers of Sonul to perish in this battle.”
The hissing voice lost its anger, became calm and sweet. “So these are the terms you offer us: that the Rulers of Ssonul may march peaceful to their graves. There were those among us who thought we should act without hearing your offer, but it is well that we saw how far your arrogance could carry you. Now you shall hear our terms.”
(Bardon heard Pyre order him to take the left hand passageway, but he was already speeding down the rightward way.)
“We, the Rulers of Ssonul, promised that you could come — but not that you could go. You came into our midst bearing no talisman of power, your men unarmed. The House of Rulers is well protected. No spirit or demon may be summoned to aid you here. Therefore our terms are simple: Death. This was decided upon when your ship came to Ssonul.”
Bardon came to the end of the passageway, a blank stone wall.
Pyre sighed. “I regret your attitude but I am not surprised by it. I offer you one last chance to reconsider before I use this.” He drew a massive candelabrum from under his robes. The center large candle burned with a bright golden flame. Around it a host of small candles burned with silver flames.
Bardon raised his sword against the stone wall and it slid back to reveal darkness beyond. Now he heard contempt in the hissing voice and perhaps a slight hint of fear:
“Do you think us children, to be frightened by such mummery? That spell can only be effective against those already weak with fear.”
“I have often lied, but I tell you truly: I regret that I must do this.”
Pyre’s hand moved toward the center candle. His fingers were blackness moving against the light. As if the gold flame were a solid object, his dark fingers began to squeeze the bright flame.
Bardon plunged into the darkness, knowing it held the enemy he sought. The change he felt when he first grasped the Sword of Avan rushed to completion. He stood in a sunbaked desert. In front of him coiled a viper of great and terrible size. Venom drooled from its huge fangs. It seemed right and natural that he should be a small bird with a sharp beak. He hopped toward the scintillant green snake. Closer, closer till he was inches from those viciously curving fangs. The instant before the serpent struck, a quick flap of his wings pulled him back. Gleaming fangs brushed his feathers. In and out; they danced the ancient rite of death. Bardon’s backsteps always left him within the snake’s reach, while the snake always kept part of its body coiled. The trick, he knew, was to judge when the enemy’s patience would fail. The dance continued and the moment came. The fanged mouth shot toward him and the thrust of his wings pulled him back. For an instant the snake lay uncoiled before him and his sharp beak sped down. It pierced the brain.
As the serpent writhed and died, the scene changed and Bardon was a man in darkness — with something evil dying on his sword.
Pyre’s fingers extinguished the golden flame. “Farewell, Old One.” From behind the black curtain sounded a brief cry of pain, then the gurgle of death. There was no sound in the audience hall, yet the chamber seemed filled with a chorus of screaming voices, begging for mercy, offering wealth, power, anything if he would but spare them. With deft strokes he snuffed out the small silver flames. As each candle died, the chorus lost a voice until all the candles were out and the soundless voices gone.
Bardon stepped back from his victim and its stench. He was glad of the darkness for he had no wish to see what he had slain. He tripped and fell through black curtains. He saw he was in the audience room but before he could check himself he stumbled against the throne. The figure that sat there pitched forward, crashed to the floor. He was only half surprised to see a wooden dummy. A sense of pride and achievement filled Bardon, for he knew it was his sword that had made the wizard’s spell effective.
“My Lord Pyre, this night we have done a great and noble work, to slay these monsters.”
The wizard’s cold bright eyes fixed upon him. “It was a great work, but an evil one. Once these were the lords of all the earth. Now we have robbed them even of their lives.”
Bardon protested, “But th
ey were treacherous. They asked us to come and talk, planning to kill us. They were evil monsters, keeping people as cattle.”
The wizard shrugged. “As for the first, we were successful in these negotiations because we brought more bad faith to the bargaining. They planned to slay us only after hearing what I had to say. While I was still speaking, you were working their death. As for the other, perhaps you and I are monsters for we eat beef while we could live on vegetables. The Rulers of Sonul ate only what nature appointed for them to eat.”
“By all the mud on the Great Turtle’s back,” swore Bardon, “your conscience is too nice by half. Your name is a synonym for evil the world over, but this day we have saved a great city of people from vile slavery and obscene death. We have given them their freedom.”
Pyre sighed with the weariness of the world.
“And with that freedom comes the right to mismanage their agriculture so that they starve; the right to die of a host of diseases from which the Rulers protected them; and the right to defend themselves as best they can against their neighbors. I’ve no doubt the cannibals will use Sonul as a pantry.” Pyre shook his head. “You are a young man and may tell yourself that freedom is worth any price. For myself I know I have again earned the infamy of my name. It does not matter. The only certain philosophy is that the gods look with favor on those who reach the battlefield first. We fought the Rulers of Sonul that our backs might be safe when we fight Sarsis. Now we must hasten to the place of that battle. The real battle, Bardon. Ancient Sarsis.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Caranga set his fists behind his hips and arched his back in with a grunt. He dashed sweat from his brow so that it pattered on the ground. Wearing only a very dirty white tunic that bared his brawny arms and legs like the knotty boles of oaks, he surveyed the hillside.
At the edge of a rich grassland, this once featureless, arid landscape was pocked now with the thousands of holes dug by him and his men. These past days of toil had demanded more of both crewmen and Ilani soldiers than would a fierce battle. Every man must be pounds lighter in lost sweat, and not all of it from the warmth of working in bright sun. Even gallons of wine would not wash away memories of this ugly task. Caranga knew that what they had done was necessary — and it still made him feel unclean. Raising a sweat-gleaming arm the color of basalt and darkest amethyst, he shouted.
The Eyes of Sarsis Page 18
