The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm)

by Brian C. Hager

  Vaun grinned, but resisted the urge to banter with the mage. “I just wanted to know what exactly will happen if Elak succeeds. I mean, will our two worlds come together in the same place, or will it be something different? Like open portals between them? What?” The youth fluidly sheathed his Vaulka and stepped over to sit across the fire from Merdel.

  Merdel chuckled. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. All I can say is that I don’t know. There are a few references to this kind of thing happening in some of the older magical texts, but they all disagree as to what exactly would happen. None of them are certain, though they all agree it would be bad. Just imagine what it would be like to couple all your world’s technology with the magic of this one.” The wizard shrugged. “I don’t know that much about it, to be honest. Lymon was the best source for that kind of information.”

  The mage’s eyes clouded over at the thought of his now-dead friend. After a moment, he shook himself. “Tholar said to avoid such a thing at all cost. He said the Great God Himself warned against it. I, for one, am positive I don’t want to find out just what will happen. I’m a curious man, but not that curious. What else did you want to know?”

  The youth nodded, accepting the wizard’s explanation as the truth. He was slowly beginning to trust Merdel, and in this instance he actually agreed with him. “That’s about it, really.”

  Merdel looked shocked. “Are you sure? Don’t tell me I have finally filled in all the holes you have in your head.”

  Vaun smiled and nodded again. “For now, at least.”

  They all retired to their blankets with that. They had increased the watch from a single person to a pair, and it was Vaun and Drath’s turn to be first. The two moved to opposite sides of the camp and settled themselves as close to the edge of their shelter as the cold would allow, both of them wrapped in their cloaks and a thick blanket. Whatever Elak’s magic had done to the rain, it hadn’t affected the cold at all. Hunching into themselves for warmth, the tall man and his young friend stared intently out at the rain-soaked world.

  Vaun, his gloved hands resting on the scabbarded sword lying across his knees, couldn’t decide whether he preferred starting watch or ending it. He enjoyed not having to wake from sleep to take his turn, which he had to do on most other nights, but the dreams he’d been having of late made him welcome the rough shake that told him his vigil began. He liked being able to see the sunrise, too, but with the rain starting back up he hadn’t had much chance to do so. However, even the thick clouds that covered the sky showed some brightening when day approached.

  Satisfied that his questions, for now, were answered, and finding gratefully that the disturbing thoughts of the last few nights did not trouble him, he stroked his sword in an effort to project some warmth into it. His thick gloves hardly kept him from feeling the blade, and he could tell it was cold. Smiling as he usually did when he thought of his connection to his Vaulka, the Swordsman settled to his watch and a few imaginings and awaited his hour of relief.

  15

  THEY RAN INTO SLEET EARLY THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON. The wind began blowing harder again, carrying the ice almost horizontally into their faces. Bitter cold forced the travelers to hunch down into their cloaks and wonder if perhaps they shouldn’t seek the roads for easier passage. If they didn’t have to concentrate on the uneven terrain, then maybe they could focus on keeping themselves warm.

  It wasn’t snowing here, yet, but they could all smell it in the air. Dart had been expecting it for almost a week. Ipek rarely had snow, being mostly low-lying, flat country, but it did get sleet and high winds. The wind always seemed to gain momentum when coming down out of the mountains, whipping frenziedly once it reached level ground. Mahal, on the other hand, always had snow in the winter, and the six could see it just ahead of them as they crossed the mostly-frozen Amnis River and entered that wealthiest of Western Kingdoms.

  The weather had recovered from Elak’s meddling, and the companions found their relief diminishing rapidly. They pressed on relentlessly through the blinding downfall, heading now toward the road, the wind echoing in their ears and carrying bits of snow. The surrounding countryside had grown too hazardous to cross safely anymore.

  Vaun glanced off to his right and saw the vague shadows of what must be mountains not too far away. Thorne, who had exchanged positions with Drath again, told him those were the Black Mountains, origin of the Jaga. The youth’s shins ached at mention of the creatures, and he hurriedly turned his eyes away, though not before noticing the blanket of white that covered the tops of the mountains. He hoped bitterly that some of the vile things would freeze to death in this cold.

  Vaun suddenly remembered Thorne had once been in Mahal at the same time as Merdel, and that the memory seemed unpleasant to the dwarf. Curious, the Swordsman asked about it, but Thorne merely growled darkly at him and refused to answer. Knowing it unwise to upset the dwarf, Vaun let the subject drop.

  As the sleet turned completely into snow they gained the road leading to the great city of Mahal. It was the first major road Vaun had traveled in this world, and he found it remarkably level and easy going compared to the trekking they’d been doing. It was fairly wide, too, with enough room for at least seven or eight horses to ride abreast. Despite the recent snowfall, the roadway was well-packed, with high drifts lining the sides.

  Thorne gave a brief, terse description of the city they approached, obviously colored by his experiences there. He said mostly that it was an extraordinarily wealthy and disgustingly opulent place. Vaun only regarded about half of what the dwarf said about it as true, waiting until he saw it himself before accepting such an openly biased opinion.

  * * *

  The next day found the six still plodding resolutely on the road. Snow covered everything around them, including themselves, but fortunately the wind had died and the snowfall was not particularly heavy. Large, wet flakes fell softly to the ground, adding to the already high drifts marking the edges of the road. They had to repeatedly move aside as a large team of horses went by pulling a massive rectangle of concave metal that plowed aside the snow to make the road passable. Mahals insisted on keeping their roads as clear as possible so that large caravans could still come to trade.

  The dreadful cold intensified, and Vaun drew his large cloak completely around his body. He thought about putting on a third shirt but remembered he didn’t have one. He glanced at his companions and wondered how they withstood it, feeling a little bit better when he saw them shiver. Hunching closer inside his cloak, he tried to imagine a large, warm fire.

  They hadn’t passed any other travelers for quite a while, though they hardly had the road to themselves, when the elves rode swiftly back to join them. They’d ridden ahead, as they periodically did, to scout and check the road in front of them. This was the only time they had come back hurriedly.

  “There’s a patrol of a dozen or so soldiers coming this way.” Rush’s breath steamed in front of him. “They don’t look like they want trouble, but you can’t be too sure with Mahals.”

  “Are you sure they’re Mahalians?” Merdel knew Elak had a few men lurking regularly in this area, and was anxious to avoid contact with any of the wizard’s soldiers.

  “They’re wearing gold and black.” Dart sounded as if that solved all problems.

  Merdel nodded, satisfied. He’d said that gold and black were the colors of Mahal’s guard, and that even Elak wouldn’t try to impersonate them. The last group of outlanders who’d tried that had taken three weeks to die. Merdel seemed a little overly apprehensive, but Vaun didn’t get a chance to ask him why as the wizard took the lead with Drath.

  Thorne merely scowled at the Mahalian wizard after being told not to overreact, but stayed where he was beside Vaun. The others resumed their pace, trying not to look suspicious, though they did loosen their weapons. According to everything they’d told Vaun, objectivity was not a Mahalian guard’s strong point.

  Shortly afterward they could see the patrol o
f soldiers. They were indeed Mahalian, though Vaun counted more than a score. He decided Rush needed to brush up on his counting skills. As expected, the patrol ordered the six to stop and demanded their business.

  “We are only travelers seeking the shelter of the great city of Mahal.” Drath pandered to the vast Mahalian ego. He claimed this was because of all the years he’d spent with Merdel. “We are weary of the road and the cold, and want a warm bed and hot meal before we freeze to death.” He shivered to emphasize his point, which wasn’t hard to fake.

  The leader, a younger fellow with a shrewd, hard face, said nothing, scrutinizing them closely with suspicion evident in his dark eyes. His black and gold uniform was immaculately neat, despite the weather, and a large, black cloak with a gold insignia of a crow in flight, the symbol of the royal house of Mahal on the left breast, was thrown over his shoulders. The three thin red bars clutched in the bird’s claws marked the man as a captain.

  Vaun sat his horse with his right hand, now ungloved, grasping his sword hilt, his head tilted down and his eyes dark under his deep hood. For some reason, the young Swordsman felt oppressed and a strong sense of urgency. Not only that, but his side itched terribly.

  The feeling was not of danger that lurked close by, but rather of a conflict that loomed ahead. It seemed to be connected directly with Mahalian soldiers. He wanted to ride past these men and return to his journey, more because he was afraid he might draw his Vaulka and attack than to hurry toward the source of the itch. The Song, however, was strangely absent, though it didn’t keep the Swordsman from aching for a fight. Fortunately, the snow obscured the young man’s form enough to conceal his hostility from the captain and his men.

  After several minutes more of discussion, the captain nodded and ordered them to continue, giving them a stout warning that Mahal was a city that took its law seriously. The guardsmen parted to either side of the road as the companions passed, and Vaun was wise enough to relax and take his hand away from his sword, though it was with a titanic effort. The hostile feeling persisted until the Mahalian soldiers were out of sight and the youth had put his glove back on, and only then did his side stop itching. The hum of the Song and the persistent pulse of the Rhythm returned as soon as the itching stopped, and Vaun could think of no explanation for this strange turn of events. Usually, the itch and the Song worked together.

  Vaun mentioned his hostile feelings to Thorne, who only laughed and said that everyone hated Mahals, and most especially their soldiers. They frequently abused their authority and generally acted like “fire-frozen iceheads.” The Swordsman laughed and relaxed further, although the puzzle of the disruption between the itch and the Song occupied his thoughts for hours afterward.

  Toward sunset, they reached the river across which lay the fabulous city of Mahal. Large groups of people and horses and wagons gathered at its edge, waiting for their turn to cross on one of the many ferries. Through the snow, which only barely fell now, Vaun could see ships resting at anchor on both sides of the river. Some were out in the middle, traveling across, up, and down its course. This river seemed able to fight the freezing cold far better than the other they’d forded. As they descended the last hill that rolled down onto the river’s banks, Vaun studied the city looming on the opposite side.

  It was a vast, sprawling conglomeration of large and small buildings. Golden spires and domes stretched into the steel-grey sky behind the wall that rose thirty feet from the ground and sat right on the edges of the river. The wharf stretched a full two miles in either direction, marking the outer boundaries of the entire city and with hundreds of tall masts along its docks. The river was over a mile wide at the ferry crossings, allowing almost two dozen of the large, flat boats to carry visitors into and out of the city.

  Thousands of people bustled both inside and outside the city, and Vaun thought surely he’d never seen so many people in one place. Over them all, the palaces and estates and smaller buildings of the great city of Mahal towered like giants, daunting them and yet also welcoming them to itself. The sun was setting almost directly behind the city, causing the gold domes and spires to glitter brightly. According to Thorne, this repeated act led to the belief, or at least the claim by Mahalians, that the sun rested in Mahal at night, and was released only through the good graces of the citizens. For this reason, Mahal had earned the name City of the Setting Sun. The rebuttal to this prideful assumption was that, after the sun had entered Mahal, darkness covered the earth, letting evil come forth into the world. Thus, Mahal was also called City of Nightmares.

  Not only was Mahal the most beautiful city in the west, rivaling even Tarquon in the southeast, it was also the most corrupt place known to man. Thieves, liars, beggars, cheats, swindlers, assassins, and gamblers walked the streets with merchants and politicians, priests and nobles. No one could agree which group was more corrupt, but everyone did say that no Mahal could be trusted. Merdel scoffed repeatedly at this prejudice, though he did acknowledge it contained some partial truth. Thorne said Merdel was the only exception.

  Merdel had told Vaun during last night’s watch that he hated having to return to the city of his birth, for he’d left the last time under somewhat difficult circumstances and with a vow never to return. But he knew he must return if they wanted to succeed. Now the wizard pulled his hood well forward as he went with Drath to reserve places for the party on the next available ferry.

  The next available ferry turned out to be two hours later, which gave the companions time to rest and stretch their legs after riding for so long. Vaun even stepped apart from the crowds to exercise his muscles and hone his techniques. He quickly attracted an astonished group of onlookers, who marveled at the grace and skill displayed by such a young man. The Song pushed their intruding voices away, though not enough for him to miss repeated mutterings of Ramen swordsmen, Vaulkas, and carrying one’s sword on one’s back. He grinned inwardly and kept practicing. After a half hour workout, the youth went to partake of the many shops and stands that turned the banks into a kind of bazaar.

  Mahals didn’t miss any chance to sell their merchandise, erecting their businesses wherever large groups of people frequently gathered. Fruits, meats, wine, clothing, and all manner of other things were sold to help revive a weary traveler after his long journey, or to begin a new one. Vaun found his bargaining skills lacked the deftness required to outmaneuver the Mahalians, so he relied on Rush to help him buy some fresh food without losing all he had. He didn’t need the help that much after all, however, as many sellers simply gave him what he asked for. They looked at him askance as they did, mumbling to themselves about appeasing such a talented slayer.

  Finally, a high-pitched voice announced their ferry, and the six travel-worn adventurers, with Thorne held tightly between Drath and Merdel, climbed aboard the vessel that would take them to the western bastion of money, power, and corruption. The Borbollon River was quite high from the rain and snow, but the ferry managed to cross easily. Small chunks of ice floated alongside the boats, but none were large enough to endanger the stout-hulled crafts. The companions disembarked with the rest of the passengers and made their way from the wharf to the great avenues waiting to take them inside the city. Walking their mounts, they passed through the first of the tall gates and entered the seafarers’ district, an odd name considering they were hundreds of miles from the sea. The Borbollon was a wide river, but it was still merely a river. Vaun passed it off as just more Mahalian boasting.

  This area consisted mostly of long, low buildings housing both shipping and boat-building supplies and sailors. Taverns occupied almost every other street, and the place smelled strongly of indulgence in all kinds of sordid pleasures. All the streets were wide and muddy and mostly uncrowded here. Ahead, though, the party could see the thick masses clogging the rest of the city.

  The next pair of gates, thick iron with golden scrollwork at the top like the others, opened into the city’s stable yard. Immediately, the six were assaulted with the noi
se of horses and their handlers trying to find a place for the beasts to rest. City law forbade riding to all except the town guard, so there were hundreds of stables available to house the mounts of travelers. The few cobblestones were slick with melted snow and animal leavings, and Vaun stumbled more than once. He also had to wipe his boots clean several times.

  After stabling their horses, which was an adventure all its own, the group moved through a third pair of gates and entered the city proper. As they passed through, Vaun noticed the thickness of the walls separating the districts: they were six feet at least!

  The snow began to fall more heavily and the shadows to lengthen toward sundown as Vaun and his companions made their way through the merchant district. Thousands of merchants called out to the passersby, demanding they buy their merchandise, and those who did heed their cries tried desperately to argue for a lower price. Few succeeded, however, as Mahalian merchants were said to be near equals to those of Celene.

  Thorne told Vaun one story of a Celenian and Mahalian merchant who had once haggled for something like five years over the import price of a single shipment of spices. The exact length of time was debatable, but it was agreed it was a very long time.

  Anyway, the bargaining went on for so long that no one remembered just whom the spices belonged to, which caused even more debate. In the end, the dwarf said, the two did settle on a price, only to find that the spices had soured because of the long wait. That sparked still more argument.

  Thorne seemed to find the story terribly amusing, and Vaun joined him in laughing, though he wasn’t sure why. After a few minutes of reflection, however, the youth decided the story was more frightening than it was amusing, simply because he couldn’t understand why anyone could become so involved in haggling that he forgot just what he bargained for. It was a kind of single-mindedness found only in fanatics…and Swordsmen.