He added unhappily, “I have to confess that the reason I did not run to his rescue when I heard his cry, was that he had established an agreement with me that neither of us would intrude upon the other during the night hours. So it could have been a lady of quality being avenged.”
For a small time they walked silently. Then: “I advise you to abandon this search.” Quag spoke earnestly. “Go back to your healing profession, and leave murderers to the authorities.”
This time Stulwig did the up and down headshake, meaning no. He said unhappily, “When Ils himself manifests in a dream, which unmistakably commands me to track down the killer, I have no choice.”
The Hell Hound’s craggy face was visibly unimpressed. “After all,” he said dismissingly, “Your Ils failed all his people in Sanctuary when he allowed the city to be overrun by armies that worshipped another god.”
“The city is being punished for its sinfulness.” Stulwig automatically spoke the standard explanation given by the priests of Ils. “When we have learned our lesson, and paid our penalty, the invader will be impelled to depart.”
“When I left the palace,” said Quag, “there was no sign of the prince’s slaves packing his goods.” Shrugging. “Such a departure for such a reason is difficult for me to envision, and I suggest you build no hopes on it.”
He broke off. “Ah, here we are. As soon as you are safely inside—and of course we’ll search the place and make sure there is no one lurking in a dark corner—”
It was a few periods later. “Thank you,” said a grateful Stulwig. He watched them, then, go down the stairs. When Quag paused at the bottom, and looked back questioningly, Stulwig dutifully closed and barricaded the door.
And there he was.
It was a quiet evening. Two men patients and one woman patient knocked on the door. Each, through the vent, requested healing service. Stulwig sent the men down the street to Kurd; and they departed in their considerably separated times, silently accepting.
Stulwig hesitated when he heard the woman’s voice. She was a long-time patient, and would pay in gold. Nevertheless, he finally directed her to a healer named Nemis. When the woman objected, he gave as his excuse that he had eaten bad food, and was not well. She seemed to accept that; for she went off, also.
Shortly after midnight there was a fourth hesitant knock. It was Illyra. As he heard her whisper, something inside Stulwig leaped with excitement. She had come, she said, as they had agreed upon that morning.
An exultant Stulwig unlocked the door. Admitted her. Motioned her towards his bedroom. And, as she went with a heavy rustling of her numerous skirts, he barricaded the door again.
Moments later, he was snuffing out the candles, and flinging off his clothes. And then in pitch darkness he joined her in the bed. As he located her naked body, he had no sense of guilt; no feeling of being wrong.
In Sanctuary everybody knew the game. There were no prissies. Every woman was someone’s mistress whether she liked it or not. Every man was out for himself, and took advantage where he could. There were, true, codes of honour and religion. But they did not apply to love, liquor, or making a living. You drove the hardest bargain right now.
The opportunity seen. Instantly, the mind wildly scanned the possibilities. Then came the initial outrageous demand, thereupon negotiated downward by the equally determined defences of the second party to the transaction.
And that was what had brought the beautiful Illyra into his embrace. Her own agreement that, unless something happened to interfere, she would be available for him in the man-woman relation.
Apparently, once she realized that the bargain was binding, she did not resist its meaning. In the darkness Stulwig found her naked body fully acceptant of him. Complete with many small motions and excitements. Most of the women who paid in kind for his services lay like frozen statues, occasionally vibrating a little in the final moments of the act. After which they hastily slipped out of bed. Dressed. And raced off down the stairs and out into the Maze.
With Illyra so different, even to the point of sliding her palms over his skin, Stulwig found himself thinking once more of the huge blacksmith who was her established lover. It was hard to visualize this female, even though she seemed somewhat larger than he would have guessed, with such a massive male on top of her. Although—
A sudden realization: there were surprisingly strong muscles that lay under him. … This woman is no weakling. In fact—
Presently, as he proceeded with the lovemaking, Stulwig found himself mentally shaking his head … Those voluminous S’danzo skirts, he thought, conceal more than slender flesh—his sudden impression was that, in fact, Illyra was on the plump side. And that obviously she wore the skirts to hide a considerably heavier body than she wanted onlookers to know about. Not hard to do, with her face so thin and youthful.
No mind. She was a woman who had not been easy to capture.
And here she was, actually responding. Interesting, also, that her skin felt unusually warm, almost as if she had a temperature.
He was coming to the climax. And so the size of her was temporarily blanked out. Thus, the awareness of a transformation of her plump body into that of an Amazon, was like coming out of a glorious dream into a nightmare.
His sudden impossible impression: he was lying on top of a woman over six feet tall, with hips that spread out beneath him at least a foot wider than he was.
His stunned thought, immediately spoken: “Illyra, what is this? Some sorceress’s trick?”
In a single, sliding motion he disengaged from that massive female body. Slid off onto the floor. And scrambled to his feet.
As he did so there was a flash of incredible brightness. It lit up the entire room, revealing an oversized, strange, naked woman on his couch, sitting up now.
And revealing, also, a man’s huge lighted figure coming through a door that, before his father’s death, had been a private entrance to Alten’s bedroom. It was an entrance that he had, long ago now, sealed up … Through it came the shining figure into the bedroom …
One incredulous look was all Stulwig had time for. And many, many desperate awarenesses: the glowing one, the being who shone with a fiery body brightness was Vashanka.
By the time he had that thought, he had numbly grasped his stave. And, moments later, was backing naked through the doorway that led out to the greenhouse.
Inside the bedroom a god was yelling in a deep, baritone voice at the nude Amazon, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed. And the Amazon was yelling back in a voice that was like that of a male tenor. They spoke in a language that was not Ilsig.
In his time Stulwig had learned several hundred basic medically useful words in half a dozen dialects of the Rankan empire. So now, after a few familiar words had come through to him—suddenly, the truth.
The woman was Azyuma. And Vashanka was berating her for her infidelity. And she was yelling back, accusing him of similar infidelities with human women.
The revelation dazzled Stulwig. So the gods, as had so often been suggested in vague tales about them, were like humans in their physical needs. Fleshly contacts. Angry arguments. Perhaps even intake of food with the consequent digestion and elimination by stool and urination.
But much more important for this situation was the intimate act she had sought with a human male … Trust a woman! thought Stulwig. Hating her incestuous relationship. Degraded. Sad. Hopeless. But nevertheless jealous when her god husband-brother went off to earth, and, as gods have done since the beginning of time, lay with a human woman. Or two. Or a hundred.
So she had got even. Had taken the form of a human woman. And had cunningly enticed a male—this time, himself; three and a half years ago, his father—to lie with her. Not too difficult to do in lustful Sanctuary.
And thus, Ten-Slayer, in his jealous rage, had become Eleven-Slayer—if humans like the elder Stulwig counted in the arithmetic of the divine ones.
Standing, now, in the centre of the greenhou
se, with no way at all that he could use as a quick escape (it always required a fair time to unbarricade his door) Stulwig braced himself. Clutched his stave. And waited for he knew not what.
He grew aware, then, that the word battle in the bedroom had come to an ending. The woman was standing now, hastily wrapping the S’danzo skirts around her huge waist. That was a momentary revelation. So such skirts could fit all female sizes without alteration.
Moments later, the woman came out. She had three of the filmy scarfs wrapped around her upper body. Her eyes avoided looking at Stulwig as she thudded past him on bare feet. And then he heard her at the door, removing the barricade.
That brought a sudden, wild hope to the man. Perhaps, if he backed in that direction, he also might make it through the doorway, once it was unblocked.
But his belief was: he dared not move. Dared not turn his head. As Stulwig had that tense realization, the brightness—which had been slightly out of his line of vision—moved. There was an awesome sound of heavy, heavy footsteps. And then—Vashanka strode into view.
There was no question in Stulwig’s numbed mind. What he was seeing, suddenly, was clearly a sight not given to many men to observe so close up. The Rankan god, Vashanka. Maker of lightning in the sky. Master of weaponry. Killer of ten god-brothers. Murderer of Jutu Stulwig (father of Alten). The mighty being stood now, poised in the doorway leading from the bedroom. And he literally had to stoop down so that his head did not strike the top of the door jamb.
He was a massive figure whose every stretch and fold of skin was lit up like a fire. The light that enveloped him from head to foot actually seemed to flicker, as if tiny tongues of white heat were burning there.
Those innumerable fires suffused the greenhouse with a brightness greater than daylight.
Clearly, a human confronted by a god should not rely on force alone. At no time was that realization a coherent thought in Stulwig’s mind. But the awful truth of it was there in his muscles and bones. Every movement he made reflected the reality of a man confronting an overwhelming power.
Most desperately, he wanted to be somewhere, far away.
Which was impossible. And so—
Stulwig heard his voice stuttering out the first meaning of those defensive thought-feelings: “I’m innocent. I didn’t know who she was.”
It was purpose of a desperate sort. Avoid this incredible situation by explaining. Arguing. Proving.
The baleful eyes stared at him after he had spoken. If the being behind those eyes understood the words, there was no clear sign.
The man stammered on: “She came as a sorceress with whom I had arranged a rendezvous for this night. How could I know that it was a disguise?”
The Ilsig language, suddenly, did not seem to be a sufficient means of communication. Stulwig had heard that its verbal structure was despised by Rankans who had learned the speech of the conquered race. The verbs—it was said—were regarded by Rankans as lacking force. Whereas the conqueror’s tongue was alive with verbs that expressed intense feeling, absolute purpose, uttermost determination.
Stulwig, fleetingly remembering those comparisons, had the thought: “To Vashanka it will seem as if I’m begging for mercy, whereas all I want is understanding.”
Feeling hopeless, the man clung to his stave. It was all he had. So he held it up between himself and the great fire-god. But each passing instant he was recalling what Quag, the Hell Hound, had said—about Ils having failed his people of Sanctuary.
Suddenly, it was hard to believe that the minor magic of a failed god, as projected into a wooden stick—however tough the wood—could withstand even one blow from the mighty Vashanka.
As he had that cringing thought, Stulwig grew aware that the god had extended one hand. Instantly, the flame of the arm-hand grew brighter. Abruptly, it leaped. And struck the stave.
Utter confusion of brightness.
And confusion in his dazzled eyes as to what was happening, or what had happened.
Only one thing was clear: the attack of the god against the man had begun.
He was still alive; that was Stulwig’s first awareness. Alive with, now, a vague memory of having seen the lightning strike the stave. And of hearing a bass voiced braying sound. But of what exactly had happened at the moment of the fire interacting with the stave there was no after-image in his eyes.
Uncertain, still somehow clinging miraculously to the stave, Stulwig took several steps backwards before the awful brightness let go of his vision centres. And there, striding towards him, was the fire-god.
Up came the stave, defensively. But even as he was remembering the words of Cappen Varra, about holding the stave in front of him, Stulwig—the stave fighter—instinctively swung the stave in a hitting motion.
Swung it at the great being less than five feet away. And felt a momentary savage surge of hope, as mighty Vashanka actually ducked to avoid the blow.
Stave fighting! He had done a lot of it out there in the wilderness, where he either tended wild herbs, or gathered herbs for his greenhouse. Amazing how often a wandering nomad or two, seeing him alone, instantly unsheathed swords and came in for the kill.
In such a battle it would be deathly dangerous merely to prod with the stave. Used as a prod, the stave could be snatched. At which, it was merely a tussle of two men tugging for possession. And virtual certainty that some wild giant of a man would swiftly wrestle it away from the unwise person who had mistakenly tried to use it as if it also were a sword.
By Ils—thought a jubilant Stulwig—there is power in this stave. And he, the lightning-god, perceives it as dangerous.
With that realization, he began to swing with all the force he could muster: whack, whack, whack! Forgot was Cappen Varra’s admonishment to use the stave only as a barrier.
It was fascinating—and exciting—to Stulwig to notice that Vashanka jumped back from the stave whenever it swung towards him. Once, the god actually leaped way up to avoid being hit. The stave went by almost two foot-lengths beneath his lowest extremity.
—But why is he staying? Why isn’t he trying to get away if the stave is dangerous to him? … That thought came suddenly, and at once brought a great diminishment to Stulwig’s battle impulse.
The fear that hit the man abruptly was that there had to be a reason why Vashanka continued to fight by avoidance. Could it be that he expected the power in the stave to wear off?
The awful possibility brought back the memory of what Ils—Cappen Varra had said. The instant shock of what must already have happened to the stave’s defence power sent Stulwig backing at top speed towards the hallway leading to the stairs. He gulped with joy, then, as he glanced back for just an instant, and saw that the normally barricaded door had been left wide open by Azyuna.
With that, he spun on his heels, and almost literally flung himself down the stairs, taking four, and once five, steps at a time. He came to the bottom. And, mercifully, that door also was open. It had been hard to see as he made his “wild escape effort.
At that ultimate last moment, the entire stairwell suddenly lit up like day. And there was instantly no question but that the demon-god had belatedly arrived, and was in hot pursuit.
Out in that night, so dark near his entrance, Stulwig ran madly to the nearest corner. Darted around it. And then ran along the street until he came to a main thoroughfare. There he stopped, took up position with his back against a closed stall, and his stave in front of him.
Belated realization came that he was still stark naked.
There were people here even at this late hour. Some of them looked at Stulwig. But almost everybody stopped and stared in the direction from which Stulwig had come—where a great brightness shone into the sky, visible above a long, low building with a dozen projecting towers.
Everywhere, now, voices were expressing amazement. And then, even as Stulwig wondered if Vashanka would actually continue his pursuit—abruptly, the brilliant light winked out.
It took a while, then
, to gather his courage. But the feeling was: even though I made the mistake of fighting, I won—
Returning took a while longer. Also, the streets were darker again; and so his nakedness was not so obvious. Passersby had to come close before, in a city where so many were skimpily dressed, they could see a naked man at night. Thus he was able to act cautiously, without shame.
Finally, then, holding his stave in front of him, Stulwig climbed the stairs up to his darkened quarters. Found the candle that was always lit (and replaced, of course, at proper intervals) at the bottom of a long tube in his office. And then, when he had made certain that the place was, indeed, free of intruders, he hastily replaced the barricade.
A little later.
Stulwig lay sprawled on his bed, unable to sleep. He considered taking one of the herbs he normally prescribed for light sleepers. But that might send him off into a drugged unconsciousness. And for this night that seemed a last resort. Not to be done casually.
Lying there, tossing, he grew aware that there were sounds coming to him out of the night. Voices. Many voices. A crowd of voices.
Huh!
Up and over into the greenhouse. First, removing a shutter. And then, looking out and down.
The streets that he could see from his second floor were alive with torchlights. And, everywhere, people. Several times, as passersby went beneath his window, Stulwig leaned out and called stentoriously: “What is it? What’s happening?”
From the replies that were yelled back, totalling at least as many as he could count on the fingers of both hands, he was able to piece together the reason for the celebration—for that was what it was.
The people of Sanctuary celebrating a victory.
Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn Page 15
