The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2)
Page 23
“A wizard?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” Gamelan replied. “It could be other things, of course, but I’d really prefer it to be someone we can bargain with to find a means to escape this place.”
“Far as I can see,” Stryker said, “We got nothin’ they want, but th’ skin we’re walkin’ around in. So there’s nothin’ to bargain. I’m with th’ Admiral. I say we fight.”
But I had glimmer of what Gamelan was getting at. A plan began to form in my mind. “I’m in complete agreement, gentlemen,” I said. “But perhaps there’s also something in what Lord Gamelan says. I propose we try to accomplish both. Cow our enemy, and find passage out at th’ same time.”
I laid out my plan. There was some grumbling, but gradually agreement was reached — we would attack that night.
I took eight of my best soldiers, including Polillo, Ismet, and Janela, a swift, sure-footed runner. I left Corais in charge of the others and had her post archers to watch for our return, making sure Gerasa was among them.
We wore only what was needed for modesty, darkened our skin — except for Ismet, who had no need — and blackened our weapons. Gamelan helped me conjure up a tarry substance that we painted on our bare feet and when we went over the side onto the immense ropes of kelp, our footing was as secure as it could be on the pitching, slippery terrain. We had a full moon to contend with, but the mist rising up from the cooling vegetation nearly obscured it. Janela, took the lead. I followed, with Ismet close behind, and Polillo — her big ax strapped to her back — protected the rear . . .
I knew if we were successful, our return trip would be at a dead run. To help, Gamelan had me mix special oil, which Polillo carried in a leather flask. She sprinkled drops on the vines as she went. They were nearly invisible and Polillo groused about what seemed to be a pointless task, but I assured her at the right time the purpose would be quite clear. I’d also ordered scores of firebeads hung from the mast of our ship so it would be easy to find our way.
As for our target — that monstrous ship — getting to it would be not be difficult. At dusk the high center tower had lit like a huge beacon. Strange raucous music trumpeted out, interspersed with wild, blood chilling howls. Some kind of victory feast, we surmised. Or perhaps our skinny friends were working themselves up for another attack on the morrow. In either case, I fully intended to spoil their celebration.
It took time to get used to clambering across the odd terrain. The whole mass was in constant motion, rolling with the seas. In places where the growth was thinner the water would geyser up without warning and it was all we could do to keep our balance. To make things more difficult, a foot might go through a space between the vines, threatening to pitch us on our faces, or smaller tendrils might tangle in our harness. There were also weak places where you could plunge down into the depths below. I had to be hauled out once, and Polillo, with her greater weight, went in three times.
It was not a pleasant experience. The water was warm and viscous and filled with scuttling little things that nipped at me with sharp claws and teeth. Instead of a pool, the hole was more like a watery nest, choked with barnacled vines that rasped on the flesh. As I fell through and the water rose above my head, I was overcome by fear something was watching. As my head emerged I sensed it was slithering for me. It was all I could do to force myself to remain calm so my companions could haul me out. As I lay panting by the side of the break, bubbles rose on the surface and when they burst there was a smell of rotting things. I shivered and nearly retched as my imagination supplied several unpleasant sources of the bubbles and the smell.
The loathsome sensation of being in that nest troubles my sleep to this day. The whole time I had the disgusting notion that not only was I about to become something’s dinner, but that I’d first be humiliated in the foulest ways possible before I was fit for it to eat. Each time Polillo went in I knew what she suffered and nearly lost my rations as I worked frantically with the others to get her out.
Eventually we discovered the easiest method to make our way was to trust to instinct and go full force. With the agile Janela at the lead, we ran along the vines, hesitating only when we’d reach the top of a rolling mass of kelp, then leaping forward to the next and running until another wave caught up to us. It took us over an hour to learn this method of locomotion and in that time made only a short distance. But once we abandoned clumsy caution it took us less than fifteen minutes to reach the hulk.
We dropped to our bellies and crept cautiously toward the gaping entrance. Corais hand-signaled an absence of guards, but that didn’t ease my worry. I was heeding Gamelan’s warning before we left that traps can take many more forms than nature and the ugly side of human ingenuity can create. I motioned a halt and slipped up to where Janela waited. I made signs for her to stay and crept onward, moving only a foot or so at a time, then stopped, pushing out with all my senses.
I felt dusty threads touch my cheek and adhere like a spider web. I nearly brushed them away, then froze. I backed up slightly, then slowly reached a hand forward — closing my eyes and concentrating. It was difficult because the strange music had grown even louder, hurting my ears and scratching at my bones. Finally my fingers touched the sorcerous web. I stopped. My fingers began to tingle. Very slowly I drew them back, feeling the magical threads cling, then fall gently away.
Gamelan had instructed me what to do before we left the ship. “Since I have no powers,” he’d said, “I cannot tell you what kind of sorcery awaits. You will need to adapt yourself to what you encounter. To elude our enemies, you will have to wear their skin.”
I signaled the others to join me. Making motions, I alerted them to the trap, then had them huddle around me in a tight knot. I pulled a small balloon of spun glass from my belt pouch and shattered it in my palm with my knife haft. A speckled powder spilled out. It smelled of fish bone and insect parts. The bone, Gamelan said, was actually the ground beaks of cuttlefish, mixed with a bit of their dried ink. The insects were the similarly treated husks of a of beetle that lives in great colonies on flowering plants. To feed and live in safety, they’d learned to form themselves into green twigs and leaves and the multi-colored flowers of their host. I stretched my palm flat and blew the dust into my companion’s faces. Then I sprinkled the residue — glass and all — on my head, and whispered the spell:
Form and Shadow,
Shadow and Form —
Paired wings that
Carry the nightbird.
In my mind I became small and weak and without pride. Hunger burned in my gut. A voice wept inside: I am dying! Poor me. Poor dying me. The weeping turned into a wailing plea: Help me, Great Master. Oh, please, Master, if only I could . . . eat.
I heard low groans from the others as they sank into misery. Instinctively, I fought the weakness, but knew that until the right moment I must give way. I let myself go, struggling only to keep a kernel of reason alive. I became pitifully fragile again, and hungry — so hungry. I babbled to my Master, my good, kind Master for food.
Something dark and ugly stirred and said I must obey Him in all things. My thoughts shrilled agreement and abasement and the ugliness chortled acceptance. I became glad as hatred flooded in, numbing the hunger. The hatred gave me strength and it was directed at — my fleet! They must die, all of them must die. Then and only then could I feed! I almost broke under that hot outpouring of anger.
It was time to act, but I didn’t have the will. I searched frantically for that seed of self I’d planted. Just as I was about to give up hope, abandoning myself to my Master, I found it. I gripped it hard in my mind. Tighter and tighter still, until I could feel my hands reflexing into fists and my nails biting deep into my palms. Sweat burst from my pores, and then I felt a coolness.
Strength returned and I rose and one by one took my weeping companions by the hand and led them through the magical web. It parted, accepting us — sensing no danger. We rested on the other side, quite whole again, with only a ravening thirs
t to mark the ordeal. I made no protest as each of my women emptied the flasks of watered wine we carried. This would be the last chance we had to drink.
There was no one to stop us or give the alarm as we went through the cavernous entrance into what appeared to have once been an enormous ship’s hold. We almost bolted as soon as we entered. It was filled with men. But they seemed asleep, or spellbound, as they twisted and groaned on the deck. I suspected the latter because the sound of the celebration echoed even louder than before, but did not seem to disturb them — at least not as much as their dreams. We crept through the men, stepping over, or dodging as they thrashed about in some nightmare’s grip. I stopped at a massive wooden pillar in the center, pulled out a long piece of red thread and wrapped it about the post. We went on, stopping now and again for me to tie other bits of thread around likely timbers and supports.
We climbed ladders to a higher deck; went along passages and climbed again. The only people we saw were asleep, and all of them were men. Everywhere we went I found dry timbers for my thread. At last we came out into the open on the main deck. Towering above us was the central turret. Stairs spiraled up. At the top, circular windows spilled light and sound.
The light was so intense our shadows were cast huge across the empty deck. I left Ismet and five others behind to guard our retreat, and sprinted to the tower — Janela and Polillo at my heels. Once there, the two of them split off in opposite directions to scout the circumference of the turret, while I got out my last spool of thread. There was just enough to complete the job. We tied it around the turret — circling it twice. I made the final knot. Now it was time to spring the trap. But before I did, I wanted to see who we faced.
I motioned for Corais to wait and Polillo and I went up the staircase. At the top it joined a circular deck. There was an open door to one side. I could see figures prancing about. On the other side was one of the windows. Polillo and I moved to it, crouching low. Then we came cautiously up to look. Polillo sucked in her breath in shock. I don’t know what either of us expected, but what we witnessed in that turret chamber is not a tale to tell to children, or even hardened companions over a jug of wine and a tavern roast.
It was an immense room, containing all the goods looted from the ships that had been caught in the Sargasso net There were great piles of finery and trunks of gems and golden plate. Stacked all around were sacks of what appeared to be grain and rare spices. The walls were cluttered with all manner of tapestries, draped brocades and silk. Old weapons and shields and armor also hung from the walls, as well as odd, rusted machines whose original purpose I could not decipher.
In the center of the room a pot large enough to feed an army bubbled and smoked over leaping flames. The fire shot out so many different hot colors that I knew it must be magical. Hunks of flesh roiled about inside the pot. It gave off a smell I do not care to dwell on. The music the men danced to blared out from everywhere and nowhere. At intervals a man would dart from the pack, jam his bare hand in the boiling liquid, screaming in pain as he fished about until he caught a hunk of meat and pulled it out. Then he’d gobble at it madly, sobbing all the while. But no sooner would he choke down a few bites then several others would claw and fight to grab a morsel away.
I was so shaken it was a moment before I saw who presided over the insanity. But there was no mistaking who the master was. The demon was sprawled across a raised platform, carpeted with thick tapestries. From his yellow-taloned feet to the single barbed horn that curled from his forehead, he was at least two javelin-lengths long. The horn was mottled white and shot with red, like fat from a butchered pig. His arms were long, like an ape’s, and his hands were taloned, as were his feet. He had death white scales for skin and a long, barbed tail that lashed about in pleasure each time a man made the painful trip to the boiling pot.
Although he was long in length, his body carried no extra weight. He was all heavy bone, big knotted joints, ribs like ship’s staves, and long cabled muscles. His horned head was flat and shovel-shaped, with two red-rimmed holes for a nose and sharp ribbed bone for lips. As we watched, another fight erupted. In the struggle for food one of them mistakenly ripped the flesh away from another man’s arm with his teeth, but gobbled it down without hesitation.
The beast I knew to be the Master howled in delight. It was the same unearthly sound we’d heard shrieking over the music since we began our journey. His teeth were pointed and as long as a finger, his tongue a quick-flickering ribbon of grayish pink.
It is unfair of me to the brand the demon “him.” For I cannot say with certainty he was not actually a she. I have been fortunate to know more good men than evil and have always been well-treated by those men most important to me. So I must apologize for this description, but it’s how I think of that demon to this day. Although he was naked, I could not tell what manner of sexual organ was between the demon’s legs. I saw only a bulbous white lump, ringed with red. I did not care to let my gaze linger to see if a penis emerged when he became most amused at the painful antics of his slaves.
Polillo nudged me and pointed. On a broad, carpeted step just below the platform I saw the source of the music. It was a woman — the only woman we’d seen among the demon’s slaves. She was also the only person we’d seen who was fat. Naked as the others, she had immense breasts that drooped over a bulging middle, legs and arms so obese they looked nearly useless and she sat on huge hams wreathed with roll after roll of fat. She was short — even seated you could see she wouldn’t stand much higher than a normal person’s belt buckle. Her hair hung in greasy strings from a head so small in all that obesity that it looked like a doll’s.
Her eyes were mere dots and she had a little bow of a mouth that she kept pursed as she played on an odd lyre-like instrument. It had a deep black frame and was strung with strands of a gray, fleshy-looking material that gleamed with moisture that oozed down along the strings as she played. Her hands moved smoothly over the lyre, stroking, rather than plucking the strings. All sorts of sounds screeched out to the rhythm of the whirling men.
Beside her was a wooden trencher the size of a small table and on it were heaped masses of food — mounds of grain mush, lumps of boiled meat clotted with fat, and heaps of crabs and other shellfish.
The Master seemed to tire of his amusements. His tail flicked out to stroke the woman. She turned to him and drooled what I think was a smile. She nodded as if he’d spoken and stopped playing. In the silence, the men immediately fell to the floor, abasing themselves to the demon.
“We love you, Master,” they chorused. “You are all that is love and all that is beauty and all that is good.”
The demon opened his mouth and spoke: “I give you eat,” he said. His voice rasped out dry and rattling like a serpent’s warning.
“Yes, Master,” the men cried. “You give us eat.”
“Others not eat,” the demon said.
“They are unworthy, Master,” the men responded.
“I give them sleep,” the demon said.
“Sleep, yes sleep. You give them the gift of sleep.”
As he spoke the woman was stuffing herself with food from the trencher. She ate with both hands and food spilled from her mouth and ran in streams down her chin to drip on her pendulous breasts.
“Tomorrow, more eat,” the demon said. “Tomorrow all eat!”
The men became so excited their chorus shattered into all manner of wild praises.
“Tomorrow,” the demon continued, “you go ships. Bring more eat for all.”
I felt Polillo shudder. He was speaking of us. The men screamed promises to kill us all. But they grew suddenly quiet as the demon rose to his full height, towering over them.
“Not kill all,” he roared. “Kill some. Keep some. Slaves for Master. Eat for Master.” The men groaned agreement, vowing obedience in all things.
The demon turned to the woman. She was scooping food into her mouth, but seemed to sense that he wanted her and stopped in mid shovel.
“Yes. Bring good eat,” the demon said.
The woman shook the food off her hands — almost daintily, and rose. She waddled among the kneeling men, poking them, pinching their arms and haunches and groins. After she had gone among them all, she circled once again, making sure. Four men were tapped on the shoulder.
They shrieked in false joy. “Thank you, Master. Thank you for finding me worthy.”
The demon gestured and they scuttled forward on their knees.
His tail whipped out and plucked one of the men off the floor. The barbed end drove into the man’s flesh and the demon lifted him up, babbling in terror and pain. Then he plunged the man into the boiling pot, howling with glee as the man screamed and writhed. Then he drew him out, still alive and struggling, dangled him over his mouth and began to eat. He started on the toes and crunched upward, all the more to enjoy the man’s agony.
I turned away from the window, gut roiling. I could bear no more. I looked at Polillo, ghastly pale with sickness. Neither of us could speak. We put our arms around one another, finding sanity and warmth in the embrace. Polillo sniffled back tears and drew away.
“I would like very much to kill that thing,” she said.
“I promise him to you,” I said, “if we get the chance.”
We fled back down the stairs, gathered Janela and the others and retreated the way we had come. In a few minutes we were slipping through the heaps of spellbound men and then we were outside, catching our breath in the moist night air. When we were ready I ordered everyone to take up position just outside the yawning entrance. Polillo grinned evilly, unsheathed her ax, and began slicing this way and that to limber up. The others drew their various weapons and stretched stiff muscles while I knelt and began my preparations.
I unrolled a thin sheet of leather, marked with symbols Gamelan had me copy out of his book. I used a few sticks of magical incense for tinder, sprinkled on a bit of powdered charcoal Gamelan said came from a holy tree and struck a long spark with flint and steel. The spark ignited the tinder and I blew gently into the small pile until a steady glow burned on the leather parchment. I’d saved a small bit of the red thread. This I dipped into a vial of oil and dangled over the glowing particles while I chanted: