Faery Lands Forlorn

by Dave Duncan

  Then he rounded the last curve and an explosion of cackling startled him; birds flapped across the ground in terror and vanished into the trees. Rap headed for the well, and his companions put on a spurt behind him.

  Water! Praise the Gods! Water and more water . . .

  Slaked inside and out, soaked and dripping, the three waifs forced uneasy smiles at one another. Very uneasy smiles—there was something terribly wrong about this abandoned settlement. Four huts burned, no people, a dead dog. Thinal's shifty gaze was even jumpier than usual; the goblin's angular eyes had narrowed to slits.

  The little clearing was well hidden. The path to the oily dark river was short, but it was narrow and would be hard to detect from the water. Upstream lay other, larger, clearings planted with crops, but even those somehow suggested concealment. The calm jungle air was heavy and sticky; the insects numerous and savage. Rap slapped and slapped and cursed, as his companions were doing, and wondered why his mastery didn't extend to insects, and why anyone would choose to live in such a place when the shore was so much more pleasant.

  "No people?" Thinal asked for the hundredth time. "You can't see anyone at all?"

  "There's nobody moving," Rap answered cautiously. He tore his farsight away from one particular spot near the edge of the fields and began to scan the huts. The trouble was, he didn't trust Thinal as far as he could have thrown Little Chicken, which was no distance at all. The imp's nerves were as tattered as his feet, and any nasty surprise was going to bring Darad in his place in a flash. He had not replaced his canceled promise.

  And the goblin was almost as bad. In the northern forest he had been doggedly insistent that he was Rap's trash, his slave and servant. He had not mentioned that recently. Here, far from his familiar haunts, his customs and habits were being shaken and undermined. He had always been a threat at Rap's back, but now the tradition that had stayed his bitter hatred was weakening. He was becoming less predictable by the hour.

  Thinal ended his cautious scrutiny and hobbled toward the nearest hut. The goblin unconsciously drooped into a tracker's crouch as he began quartering the ground. Rap followed Thinal.

  The cabin was small, its leafy roof low. The walls were made of flimsy wicker and no higher than Rap's waist, leaving an open space all around below the eaves. In that steamy climate this might be adequate shelter, however impractical it seemed to Rap's northerner's eye. He ducked in through the doorway, but then he had still to keep his head bent below hanging nets full of small gourds and tubers—the family larder, presumably. They reminded him how ravenous he was.

  Woven mats covered the floor. Thinal was already rummaging through some rattan hampers in a corner. There was no other furniture except some clay pots, a couple of rough stools, and rolls that were likely bedding.

  Thinal straightened with a sniff of disapproval. He flashed an unexpected grin. "A thief would starve to death here! Wouldn't he?"

  "Dunno."

  Chuckling, Thinal limped over to another corner and flicked aside the mat to reveal a wooden disk set level with the dirt. By then Rap had sensed the pot buried underneath.

  "How'd you know about that?"

  "Professional secret!" Thinal sniggered and hauled out a handful of beadwork. "Darkest corner. Necklaces. . . bangles? Junk!" He tossed it aside. "Coral and shells and pretty, pretty junk! No metal. No stones."

  Rap left him to his petty pillaging and went out to look for the goblin, whom he found studying one of the hearths. He greeted Rap with a mirthless, disbelieving show of oversized fangs.

  "No people. Flat Nose?"

  "One," Rap said softly. "Ran for the woods. He's still there."

  Little Chicken nodded, little mollified. He pointed at the charred ruins. "Anything in there?"

  Rap scanned casually—and then more closely.

  "Gods! Bones?"

  "No boats. Marks of many. How many people lived here?"

  A factor's clerk should be able to estimate that. "Forty? No, nearer sixty, counting kids."

  Little Chicken nodded agreement and grinned again. "Now count the bodies." He chuckled at Rap's shudder and walked off, apparently following some sort of trail, despite the deepening shadows.

  Rap sat down in the dust to ease his feet and began the gruesome task he had been given. Bone was hard to distinguish from charred timber, but two of the ruins seemed to contain none and he realized with relief that many of the remains were those of dogs. In the end he was sure of only three human skeletons. Even so . . .

  He rose and went to report. Little Chicken was standing inside one of the undamaged huts, peering up at the rafters. Here the storage nets had been cut down and thrown in a corner.

  "Three," Rap said, and was tempted to add, "sir." The goblin was back in his element, evidently. Now his grin showed real happiness.

  "See here?" He pointed at the flooring. "Blood!"

  Rap knelt. The stains were barely visible in the dust, and quite dry. "Maybe."

  "Is blood! Spattered. See on walls?" In his excitement, Little Chicken had reverted to goblin dialect. "And up here? Marks on wood? Rope!"

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "Flogged. People hung up here and flogged. Only whips would splash walls like that."

  Rap heaved himself to his feet, feeling sick. "You have a gruesome imagination!" he snarled, and stalked out into the brighter light of the compound.

  Maybe. But Little Chicken was an expert on torture.

  3

  Fire snapped and cracked, working on green wood, throwing nervous shadows around the tiny settlement and wafting pale coils of smoke lazily upward. It was certainly not needed for warmth. Little Chicken had said it would drive away insects; he had been wrong, and likely he just found fire reassuring. Overhead, the stars were hidden by cloud. Rain threatened.

  An imp, a faun, and a goblin—all far from home, Rap thought wryly, and far from happy. In the gathering dark they sat on stools around the fire, too weary for the effort of making conversation. Now and again the others would start, glancing warily at the encircling jungle. Rap did not need to look at it; he was keeping it under surveillance constantly, but nothing was moving out there.

  The imp had never been robust; now he looked wasted. Blotchy stubble made his narrow face seem dirty, yet did nothing to hide the pustules and blackheads. All his bones showed as he gazed despondently into the flames.

  Firelight had given the goblin's skin the greenish tinge that Rap remembered from the winter nights. He was leaning his elbows on his knees, staring at the coals; worried and resentful at being out of his element. His sunken cheeks emphasized the breadth of his face and his long nose, but he was certainly in better shape than either Rap or Thinal.

  And the faun? He at least had a purpose, and somehow that purpose had made him leader of this itinerant disaster. He felt woefully unqualified to lead anything, having achieved nothing with his life so far except a string of disasters. He had betrayed his king in a futile attempt to warn the king's daughter, he had failed Inos herself when he should have accepted two more words of power to become a mage. She had called out to him, and he had failed her again.

  He needed help.

  Rap coughed. Little Chicken looked up and Rap nodded: now!

  The goblin rose, swatting bugs. "I will bring more firewood," he announced loudly. He was a lousy actor, but Thinal was engrossed in watching the embers and did not notice. The goblin faded away into the shadows.

  Compared to Little Chicken, a butterfly was a noisy blunderer. Quieter than starlight, he circled around behind Thinal and took up position as Rap had requested earlier, raising a woodsman's ax high, as if poised to split the imp's skull. Rap rose stiffly, clutching a slender fishing spear. He limped closer to Thinal, who looked up with understandable alarm.

  "Don't worry," Rap said. "It's not you I'm after. I want a favor."

  Thinal flashed a nervous toothy smile. "What's that, Rap?"

  "I'd like to talk to Sagorn."

  Thinal grinne
d in relief. "Sure." He tugged at the thong around his waist, loosening the knot.

  "About time!" Sagorn said.

  Rap had been expecting the transformation. He had seen it done before, yet he was just as shaken by the instantaneous substitution as he had been the first time. He still felt there ought to be some sense of change, of one person melting into the other, but there was none of that. The swarthy little imp was gone and in his place sat a tall, gangling old man, calmly adjusting the loincloth to fit him.

  His thin white hair was unruffled, as it had been when he vanished from Inisso's chamber. He was clean and freshly shaved. Somehow he could still project a sense of superiority, even wearing nothing but a rag. His skin was pallid and limp, hanging wearily on his bones, and he smiled an old man's thin-lipped smile. Firelight deepened the clefts framing his mouth to gashes.

  Rap took a deep breath. "I want your advice, sir."

  "You need it, you mean. You are a very determined young man, Master Rap. However, I give you my oath that I shall recall Thinal. I assume that your henchman is standing behind me with another spear?"

  "A stone ax."

  Sagorn raised spikey white eyebrows. "Hitting Darad on the head would not be a gainful procedure. You could only make him madder. But I give you my word."

  Rap had been very careful not to look toward Little Chicken. Sagorn had guessed he would be there. He was demonstrating his superiority, seeking dominance.

  "But you will not mind if Little Chicken stays there? After all, I have no reason to trust you."

  Sagorn's wrinkles deepened in the smile that always reminded Rap of an iron trap. "As you wish. But I bear you no grudge. Darad will not be called by me. I give you my word on that."

  "Thank you," Rap said awkwardly.

  "So you want my opinion of this village?" Sagorn's gaze wandered around briefly. "As Andor told yon, I never met a fairy. Vicious headhunters, it is said. The city is well fortified."

  "The doorways here are low, the beds short."

  "So I saw—Thinal saw. Obviously this is a fairy settlement."

  Rap had already come to that conclusion. "But what happened? Why is it deserted? Or is it?"

  "Probably one band of fairyfolk attacked another . . ." Sagorn frowned, peering up at Rap's face, which could not be very visible to him against the fire. "You have reason to think otherwise?"

  "Bedding, cooking pots, nets, food?"

  The old man tugged his lip. "You are right. Those would be looted."

  "There are bones in those ruins."

  "So?"

  "Three skeletons. Three skulls."

  "Mmmph! You may be ignorant, but you are not stupid, my young friend. So if not headhunting, men perhaps it was a reprisal by Imperial troops?"

  "Do legionaries flog captives to death?"

  "Yes."

  "But for what?" Rap said. "I thought headhunters used their victims' skulls as trophies? There is nothing like that here—no heads on posts, no posts to stick 'em on, even. Those things over there are for fishing nets. All the weapons we found look like hunting equipment. No swords. The arrows are small, bird size, not barbed. This is a fishing spear. Ask Little Chicken."

  The pale jotun eyes glinted at him in the firelight. "You are more astute than I thought, Master Rap. When I first met you, in the king's study . . . I underestimated you. You have grown a lot since Jalon met you in the hills last year."

  Rap had grown enough to resent the patronizing. "The fields are still being tended, in places. Ashes in one hearth had not been rained on. Little Chicken saw. Weeds are sprouting in doorways, but one hencoop still has occupants. Someone has been feeding them."

  Sagorn twisted around carefully to look up at the goblin, who still held the ax over him without a tremor. "Things grow here faster than in your northern forest, young man."

  Little Chicken said nothing, his angular eyes shining gold in the fire's glow. Sagorn turned to face Rap again, obviously disconcerted by this looming threat.

  "If you allow for the tropics, whatever happened here was quite recent, a few weeks at the most." So far the famous sage had not said anything very profound, Rap thought, but now he flashed his grim smile again. "And if you detected survivors with your farsight, you did not dare tell Thinal."

  "Someone ran away as we approached."

  "Just one?"

  "Just one. And he is still there, about two bowshots off." Not that an arrow would go far through these woods.

  "Doing what?"

  "Just sitting. He's been there a long time."

  "Well? Describe him!" Sagorn glared impatiently. "I can't do your thinking for you if I don't have the information."

  "About this high. Skinny. I can't make out much detail at that distance. No weapons, as far as I can tell. Dark, I think."

  "Humph! That is not even gnome height. A child, then?"

  Rap nodded.

  "Then I think I agree with your guess. Imperial troops or jotunn raiders. One child survived the attack. Not knowing what to do, he has remained here and tried to carry on the work of the village in the hope that someday the others will return. You must catch him! Use your farsight, or your goblin." Again the old man smiled his sinister smile. "You did not risk calling me just for that obvious advice, did you?"

  Sagorn rubbed his chin. "No, things are certainly amiss. Thinal's intuition is very interesting. As he told you, I was young when I came here. It was before we learned our word of power. I have spared no thought for Faerie since then, and Thinal has certainly had no cause to. If he now believes it holds something worth stealing, then it probably does."

  Rap put his suspicion into words. "You mean that the fairies are protected from the visitors, not the other way round?"

  "That would seem to be one possibility. There are certainty monsters, though. I saw a pair of sphynxes and a chimera."

  "In cages?"

  "Yes. I rode on a hippogriff. But you are right—there is too much protection if the purpose is merely to repel wildlife. Even Thinal saw that the Impire does not usually bother to defend tourists. No headhunting, you think? And the last remaining inhabitant of this village is frightened of you, of strangers. So who or what is protected, and from whom?"

  Sagorn fell silent, slapping angrily at bugs.

  Rap wanted answers, not questions. "Tell me about Milflor, sir. Where is it?"

  "On the east coast, near the south, I think. The prevailing wind . . . Yes, far south. You came the wrong way."

  "How big is it?"

  "Not big, at least when I was there. Many Imperial troops . . ." He paused again. "And ships. Small, coastal vessels. Smuggling?" The pale jotunn eyes flickered with excitement. "Now why, I wonder? This is a very interesting little mystery, Master Rap! Trust Thinal to stumble onto this. If there is ever anything of value around, he will always find it. And steal it."

  A word of power was a thing of very great value. Rap hoped that more than just his own word of power was triggering Thinal's acquisitive instincts. "What could there be here worth stealing?"

  "I don't know. But I suspect that Thinal will find it."

  "I just want to get away."

  "Let me give you some real advice, then, as that was why you summoned me." The old man glanced down at Rap's feet. "All of you need rest. You must stay here for a few days to recover. No, hear me out! You will gain nothing by killing yourselves, and Thinal is at the limits of his endurance. I am astonished he has stayed. You have been flattering him, and I suggest you continue to do so. You are quite right not to want either Jalon or Andor around, and I cannot help with the traveling. So keep praising Thinal. It will help him, and you."

  Thinal, of course, would remember this conversation.

  "What's your interest in this?" Rap demanded suspiciously.

  Sagorn chuckled dryly. "The occult! Why did the magic casement react so strongly to you? And Witch Bright Water—why, I wonder, is she so solicitous of our brawny friend here?" He gestured with his thumb at the goblin. "What have you
done to rouse the wardens?"

  "I only know what I told Thinal," Rap said.

  "And Thinal believed you. Of us all, he is perhaps the best at detecting lies, so I shall accept his judgment."

  "Then tell me about this Bright Water, sir."

  "She is very old and said to be mad—a safe enough bet."

  "Why?"

  "Oh, work it out! Remember how horrified you were when I first told you about your own word of power? The sorcerous live a long time. They can have anything they want: power, riches, women—or men, of course—youth, and health. Anything! It must pall after a decade or two. And yet they live in perpetual dread of other sorcerers."

  "Who seek to steal their words?"

  Sagorn hesitated. "Possibly. Andor told you that, right? But no mundane really knows how their minds work. There is another possibility. A strong sorcerer can bind a weaker to his service with a spell of obedience. The wardens are reported to do that. Other sorcerers fear the wardens, because they are the strongest of all, jealous of rivals, and they always seem to have retinues of mages and lesser sorcerers at their command. I suspect each warden continuously scans his sector, hunting for sorcerers he can bind to his service. Inisso's castle at Krasnegar. . . remember the occult barrier you sensed around it? You told Andor."

  Now Rap felt he was getting somewhere. "And the chamber of puissance was outside the shield, above it, like a watchtower?"

  "Well, then! Sorcerers seem to have two options. Some build strongholds like that in remote places and become virtual hermits, cowering inside occult shells. Others just hide from view by not using their powers—that is the only way I can explain how sorcerers spring up without warning. History is full of such stories. The new warlock Zinixo, for example, supposedly inherited all four of his words from a great-great-grandmother who had used her abilities only to prolong her own life. No one had ever known that she had occult power."

  Bright Water, Rap recalled, had claimed she could detect power being used, even his tiny talent. He shivered.