by Angus Wells
It was an uncomfortable time, the air hot and moist and stinking, so that shirts hung damp and irritating to skin that seemed never dry, the daily tasks rendered the harder for the growths of moss and algae that sprang up overnight on ropes and canvas and cloth. Food spoiled faster here, and metal required constant oiling; leather threatened to rot and wind-borne insects assailed them, stinging and sometimes bringing fevers. The Vanu folk, more accustomed to their high, windswept homeland, suffered the worst, but in that thick, insect-filled atmosphere even Calandryll and Bracht recalled almost nostalgically the cleaner discomfort of the gaheen and the days spent following the jungly coastline of Gash.
At fast, their water hear gone and their food running low, they saw the headland that marked the site of the hide hunters’ outpost. It thrust dramatically from the vast expanse of swampland, as if whichever god had shaped this desolation had allowed one single nub of solid ground to remain; or omitted to reduce it to miasmic bog. It was a grey thumb stuck across their course, raised up a little above the surrounding swamp. Low huts stood along the headland and shallowboats floated on the turgid water, moored to ramshackle jetties raised up on mossy piles above the reeds. As they drew closer they saw the huts, too, were built on piles, ramshackle, stilted structures of wood and hides and rushes, seeming almost to have grown there rather than been built by human hands, and the fetid scent of the swamp was joined by a ranker odor. Calandryll, standing on the fore-deck, came close to gagging on that stench and pointed in silent disgust to the bloody hides stacked about the buildings. Bracht, his own mouth clamped tight, nodded and indicated the dragon carcasses that floated on the tide. Katya, standing beside them, said nothing, winding a cloth about her face, masking nose and mouth.
Tekkan ordered the longboat lowered and soundings taken, bringing his craft in as close he dared while a crowd gathered, watching this unexpected arrival with the wary enthusiasm of folk too long accustomed to their own company and consequently suspicious of newcomers.
The anchors went down, holding the warboat, and Tekkan summoned Calandryll, Bracht, and Katya to the poop, to hold brief conference there.
They had already agreed a simple plan: those three, with eight of Quara’s archers and as many oarsmen as they might heed, would journey inland to Tezin-dar, using Calandryll’s chart. They would endeavor to hire a guide from among the hide hunters, someone familiar with the swamps; and Tekkan would await their return offshore with the bulk of the crew.
“These are mostly Kands here,” Tekkan said, studying the swarthy faces lining the headland, his own creased in distaste, “and Calandryll speaks their language better than any of us—let him negotiate for a guide and a boat. And Katya—I’d wager these hunters have few women present, and have likely never seen any such as you. Warn the archers to tread wary around them; as should you.”
“None shall lay hand on her,” Bracht said promptly, that gallantry eliciting a brief nod from Tekkan, and a warning.
“Ward your temper, Kern—they outnumber us.”
Bracht grunted assent. Calandryll, impatience growing, said, “Do we go ashore now?”
“Aye,” said Tekkan, and they clambered down into the longboat.
Their arrival at the closest jetty brought the crowd of hunters surging around them, filling the air with shouted questions. Calandryll answered them as best he could, waiting as the boat ferried more of the Vanu folk ashore. They were neither merchants or corsairs, he informed them, but adventurers bent on journeying inland, that hews bringing a howl of derision from the assembled Kands. Why, they wanted to know; there was nothing inland save more swamp and the promise of an ugly death. Worse than dragons inhabited the inner swamps, they said, stranger creatures than any man had seen. He noticed then that on the fringes of the jostling crowd there lingered figures he could not swear were entirely human, thrust back by the Kands as might be children, or curious animals. He saw a man—he thought it was a man—whose face appeared scaled, like a lizard’s; a woman whose skin was a greenish color, the bunching of her skirt suggestive of vestigial tail; another, whose sex he could not define, showed a face flattened, porcine, like ill-molded clay. There were more, but hidden by the humans, themselves barbaric in high boots of dragon hide, necklaces of teeth, and patchwork garments, with broad-bladed knives and heavy swords much in evidence. Many, he realized, were female, but dressed as the men, and like them, gave off an odor of sweat and blood; and many, male and female both, were missing parts: fingers or whole hands, some with peg legs, others with empty sleeves. One pushed to the fore, a short, broad-shouldered man, his beard a striation of black and silver, three fingers missing from his right hand, a thong heavy with dragons’ teeth about his thick heck. He announced himself Thyrrin ek’Salar, and when he raised his hands for silence, the throng obeyed, as if he held some office among them, or was their acknowledged spokesman. He suggested that all should repair to what he called their inn, that all present might hear what word came from Kandahar, and, seemingly accustomed to obedience, led the way to a long building of wood and reeds hung with hides for walls, half its floor jutting out over the swamp, a deck beneath which floated the detritus of the place, the water alive with small scavengers squabbling over the corpses of flayed dragons and the offal that was spilled there. It stank, to which the hunters appeared oblivious, its furniture a motley collection of carpentered pieces and makeshift, bones as prominent as wood in the construction. Calandryll saw that the halflings made no attempt to enter, gathering instead about the foot of the ladder as the human folk crowded inside.
They were brought mugs of some sharp liquor, distilled, ek’Salar advised them, from one of Gessyth’s few edible plants. He owned the inn, he told them, and was disappointed to learn they carried no wine or ale to trade, his stocks run out and not replaceable until the merchants came north. They drank his homemade brew for appearance’ sake; the hunters quaffed eagerly, welcoming this interruption of their lonely routine.
Questions were shouted until ek’Salar imposed some semblance of order, requesting Calandryll to rise and impart his hews. He climbed to his feet, doing his best to ignore the insects that buzzed about his face, and told them of events in Kandahar, of the uprising in the Fayne and the Tyrant’s seizure of available vessels, that producing shouts of outrage and alarm. He said nothing of the founding of a Lyssian fleet, and deemed it the wiser course to allow the hunters their assumption that the Vanu folk were of his country. Finally he was free to speak with ek’Salar.
“You would travel inland?” the Kand demanded, fixing Calandryll with a dark gaze rendered disturbing by the cast that distorted his left eye. “Why?”
“Gessyth is uncharted,” Calandryll declared, telling the tale agreed earlier on the warboat, “and I am a scholar. I would map the interior.”
Laughter greeted his announcement as those closest relayed his words to the rest. Ek’Salar waved his two remaining fingers in the direction of the swamps, his smile exposing blackened teeth.
“There is nothing to map, my friend. There is nothing save what you see—swamp and more swamp.”
“Legend tells of a city,” Calandryll replied. “A fabulous city deep in the swamplands.”
Ek’Salar snorted laughter and shook his head: such a gesture as might meet the telling of a tale so improbable as to place the teller’s sanity in doubt.
“Legend tells that the cities of Lysse are walled with gold,” he said, “but you, as a Lyssian, likely know better.”
Calandryll smiled agreement: this man, he decided, was the one who held the key. Should he argue against their going, they would find no support: he must win ek’Salar’s support.
“You are clearly traveled,” he said, “and so know better than to believe each legend you hear.”
“Indeed, I do,” ek’Salar nodded, pausing to crush an insect that landed on his cheek, idly wiping the smeared remains against his tunic. “And so I know that Tezin-dar does not exist.”
“You know the name?” Calandryll
said.
Ek’Salar chuckled and sipped the fierce liquor. “I know the name,” he grinned, “and I know that men have gone seeking that place before. I know that none have returned.”
“Ortan!” called a hunter. “Tell him about Ortan!”
“Indeed,” said ek’Salar, “the tale of Ortan is a salutary lesson. He was one of us, Ortan—a hunter of dragons, and a good one. But he dreamed of Tezin-dar, which—as you, a scholar, doubtless know—is reputed to be paved with precious metals; gold and silver and others unknown to man, with priceless jewels set as ornaments in the walls. Windows of gems so large and flawless they form the panes. All there for the taking, Ortan said, and him the one to find it. Well, Ortan persuaded several others as foolish as himself to accompany him on this madman’s journey—nine of them, with Ortan the tenth. Good men, all of them: they knew the swamps. And not one came back! Though we did see Ortan again …”
He paused, chuckling, and raised his mug, straight eye fixed on Calandryll. “At least we guessed it was Ortan because he wore a ring we recognized on the hand we found in the belly of a dragon. That and his knife, which was also in the dragon’s belly.”
Fresh laughter met the telling. Calandryll held his face straight and said, “Even so, that does not prove the city does not exist.”
“Perhaps not,” said ek’Salar mildly, “but it proves that any man who goes seeking it is a fool.”
“I do not think I am a fool,” Calandryll said, and glanced at his companions, “Nor are my comrades fools.”
“If you go seeking Tezin-dar,” said ek’Salar quietly, “you are all fools. And you will die out there.”
“We have come far,” Calandryll returned. “We have fought the cannibals of Gash to come here.”
“The painted people?” Ek’Salar flourished a dismissive hand. “They are nothing. You have seen the dragons?”
Calandryll nodded.
“You have seen the younglings—the mature dragons inhabit the deep swamps, and they can swallow a boat whole. And they have a taste for human flesh.”
“You survive them,” Calandryll said.
“We know their ways, and we do not venture where the full-grown dragons hunt.” The Kand shook his head, his swarthy face abruptly serious. “I tell you, my friend, that only death awaits you in the swamps. The dragons are hazard enough, but there is more—a great deal more. Out there are living trees that feed on flesh; insects that find a man’s—or a woman’s,” this with a look to Katya, “body a most excellent place to lay their eggs. And those eggs hatch grubs that eat you—a most painful death! There are creatures in the swamps such as make those things outside look human—and they are no friends to men.”
“I should be willing to pay a guide,” Calandryll said, “handsomely.”
“My friend, my friend,” ek’Salar sighed, “Have you heard nothing? There is no one here will take you into the deep swamps. Your Lyssian gold is insufficient—listen to me! You have coin? Then buy our hides! You come here ahead of all the rest and so have the chance to take your pick of the prime skins. Take those back to Kandahar and you can dictate your price in the market. If what you say of this civil war is true, Kandahar will have heed of armor and you shall return to Lysse wealthy. Wealthy and alive still.”
“I thank you,” said Calandryll gently, “but I am no merchant. I came to find Tezin-dar, and that I shall attempt.”
Ek’Salar shook his head wearily. “You name yourself fool, my friend. And you will die a fool’s death if you attempt this.”
“Even so,” Calandryll murmured, smiling that the Kand should know he was not insulted, “I would hire a guide. A guide and a boat suitable for the swamps. Will you help me in that? For which service I should, of course, be willing to offer a fee.”
“I require no fee,” said the Kand, “for you will not find a guide. But I will ask.”
He rose to his feet, gesturing the crowd to silence.
“Listen to me! These folk are come seeking Tezin-dar and require a guide. One who knows the deep swamps. They will pay—handsomely!—for this service. Indeed, I believe the man who undertakes this commission might name his own price. Will any here go with them?”
There was a long silence, then a man laughed, echoed by another and another until all were roaring mockery. Someone called, “Tezin-dar? I’ll show those women sweeter dreams than that.” Another shouted, “Better slice your wrists now—that’s an easier death.” Most shook their heads in negation and disbelief, studying the newcomers with pitying and puzzled eyes, as if they recognized madness.
Calandryll looked to his companions. Bracht sat stone-faced, staring at the laughing hide hunters; Katya’s eyes were troubled above the veil of cloth; Tekkan clutched his mug, grimly, his weather-beaten features stolid. Ek’Salar turned to face them; sat down, smiling.
“You see? And these men are no cowards—they face death when they hunt the dragons, but they know better than to die in pursuit of a dream.”
Calandryll nodded reluctantly. “A boat then?” he asked. “Can we purchase a boat?”
“You intend still to continue?” The Kand was incredulous. “Without a guide? After all you’ve heard?”
“We have come too far to turn back now,” Calandryll advised him. “Guide or no, we shall go on.”
Ek’Salar reached forward, settling his good hand about Calandryll’s wrist, the fingers digging deep, as if with that pressure he sought to impress his warning, his good eye fierce on Calandryll’s face.
“Are your wits lost, my friend? Are you gone so far into madness you cannot hear what I tell you?”
Calandryll fought the desire to turn his face from the man’s sour breath. “I have my wits,” he said, “And I shall go on.”
“You!” Ek’Salar released his hold, head swinging to encompass Tekkan with his distorted gaze. “You are older—and so, perhaps, wiser—do you support this insanity?”
“I do,” said Tekkan solemnly.
The Kand sighed noisily, looking to Bracht, seeing the impassive stare that met his unspoken inquiry and turned to Katya.
“You are, I think, a prize among women. Would you have that face eaten by worms? Would you die between a dragon’s jaws? Or find yourself the plaything of the swamp folk?”
“None of those,” she answered, her voice even, her eyes steady on his face. “But still we must go on.”
“Burash!” Ek’Salar raised his eyes to the rush matting of the roof. “Are you all mad?”
“Will you sell us a boat?” Calandryll pressed.
“If I cannot dissuade you,” the Kand shrugged, “then, yes. I will sell you a boat and the supplies you will heed. But later—tonight you dine with me.”
“You are kind.” Calandryll inclined his head politely. Ek’Salar chuckled, shaking his, and said, “You shall at least go to your deaths with full stomachs.”
THERE was more conversation then, and more of the bitter liquor pressed on them, the hunters, their initial curiosity satisfied, clustering about the women with rough compliments and crude invitations. Calandryll saw Bracht tense angrily as several men gathered about Katya, and was pleased that the freesword held tight rein on his temper as the woman adroitly fended the unwanted attention. Tekkan negotiated a refurbishment of supplies and a refilling of his water casks, all promised for the morrow, and in time ek’Salar announced that they should eat.
Calandryll had anticipated dining where they sat, and did not much relish the prospect of such fare as the inn would seem to offer, so he was pleasantly surprised when ek’Salar rose, leading them from the place.
The sun was almost set now, the swampland assuming a weird beauty as red-gold light sparkled on the brackish water, the moss that festooned the mangroves like golden filigree, the trees themselves burnished. Frogs croaked a chorus of farewell and dragons bellowed far off as a flight of birds—or creatures akin to birds—winged toward the refuge of the branches. The halflings gathered about the inn parted silently, studying them with strang
e, expressionless faces that seemed to Calandryll to hang on the very edges of humanity, some animalistic in their deformity while others appeared merely malformed, their physiognomy misplaced. Ek’Salar paid them no heed, no more than would a man walking among cattle, as if they were beneath his consideration: merely present and expected to remove themselves from his path.
He brought his guests to a building on the very edge of the headland, set a little apart from the rest, built all of wood, with some yellowish membrane stretched over the windows in lieu of glass and a covered veranda along two sides. He mounted the ladder, beckoning them on, and opened the door with a grandoise flourish.
They found themselves in a room large enough to accommodate the full party, the walls hung with hides painted in approximation of the tiles favored in Kandahar, a long wooden table with ominously large rib bones for legs at the center, chairs of bone and hide set down its length. Girandoles of polished brass were mounted along the walls, set with tallow candles whose flames were reflected in the mirrors, filling the chamber with warm light. Ek’Salar suggested they refresh themselves, indicating a door granting ingress to a bathing chamber, a well at its center.
“The water is fresh,” he assured them.
“You live well,” Calandryll complimented, glancing about the room.
The Kand shrugged modestly. “I have done well here,” he murmured, “and these people regard me as their leader. They are simple folk for the most part, who would be cheated by the merchants did I not negotiate on their behalf.”
He clapped his hands and a halfling woman emerged from a door at the rear of the room.
“Guests.” He enunciated each word carefully. “Food for all”
The woman bowed, strands of pure white hair that seemed to move of their own accord falling about her face, and disappeared. Ek’Salar opened a cabinet of some reddish wood, decorated with ornate figures, and produced goblets of carved bone, two flagons of wine. “Saved,” he explained, “for some suitable occasion. Such as the settling of a contract.”
