by Allan Cole
Demon’s Point was well named although I do not know who first set eyes on it. An ice barbarian, perhaps, sailing out from some distant petty kingdom. A fellow with hairy shoulders and a filthy beard and yellow teeth to chatter with when the sight of that awful land struck fear in his savage heart.
I’d been told by local seafarers that it’s rare for the skies to be clear enough to see Demon’s Point. The land is usually hidden by boiling storm clouds alive with - according to one old salt - crackling lightning that struck upwards instead of down.
The rogue waves in that area are as notorious as the storms, and some say an entire fishing fleet was swallowed by waters that reached as high as the Pillars Of Te Date which mark the entrance to the Southern Seas.
Storms such as those had obscured any view of the point during the three trips I’d made before although the blows didn’t reach the fury local legend said was possible. This day, however, was as calm as the innocent brow of a novice priestess.
A pale sun hung over the point, making the small white clouds hovering above glow with the softness of a maid. The seas were a placid blue and as we rounded the point a troop of dolphins came out to greet us, leaping high and shrilling their joy at seeing company in such a lonely place.
I was in a peaceful mood, a reflective mood, and for those reasons I was caught unawares.
First the wind gentled and I heard Carale call to his men to make adjustments in the set of the sails. The echoes the men made as they relayed his orders were pleasant haunting sounds playing above the slow crash of the rolling seas. I smelled moist green plant life on the wind and I found myself wondering idly where that delightful odor could be from.
I hadn’t seen a speck of vegetation in several days. Only a cold black coastline so thick with rocks and washed by brine that no self-respecting tree or bush would ever consider setting down roots in such a place. I knew a wide desert lay some distance inland. Beyond that were high pine forests and a few valleys where savage farmers might poke the ground with sticks to plant a tuber which they’d leave for chance to rear.
According to some the southern coastline continued like this for many a league. I found later that these claims were mostly true. And furthermore, there is a passage many leagues distant that leads to a great EasternSea that no one previously had known existed.
While I stood there on the deck, marveling at the magical scent the winds had borne up, I suddenly heard music.
A delicate strumming of marvelous strings ghosted on the air. They warmed me, beckoned me, reminded me of the hearth fires of home.
It was suddenly most important to see who was playing so sweetly. I turned to ask Carale to set a course that would carry us closer to the point when I heard him order his men to perform the same actions I was about to utter.
His cry stirred a warning in my mind but my heart had assumed the throne of fools and for a long time I ignored my mind’s pleadings that danger lurked ahead.
It’s just music, my heart said, lovely music. Only gentle people could play such music. Civilized people with love in their hearts for all.
My Evocator’s senses pounced scant seconds before I saw the first ship.
It was a wide high galleon of archaic design. But there was nothing primitive about its deadly speed. Triple banks of oars plunged into the sea, hauling the big ship out to meet us at an alarming pace. I heard the oarmaster’s drums boom over the mysterious strings. I even imagined I could hear the crack of his assistants’ whips as they strode along the benches urging still more speed.
I saw all this as if in a dream. It was a vivid dream, I’ll say that. Complete with crouching archers in the galleon’s bows and naked swordsmen swarming to the sides.
An immense banner fluttered over the ship. On a field of black a huge silver bear was rising up, fangs bared, claws outstretched to take its enemy.
I broke free from the spell just as two other galleons hauled into sight. I shouted a warning to Carale. But as I did so I knew the warning would fall on spell-stopped ears.
I looked wildly about for a means to fight the magical assault. The first galleon was nearly on us and I could hear my men shout warm greetings, oblivious to the obscene growls from the pirates preparing to board us.
Battle vision and battle time descended on me and I saw everything in the most minute detail and all action slowed to a slug’s pace.
But my mind was racing ahead like a war chariot’s desperate drive to force a break in the enemy line.
A shower of arrows fell, miraculously missing all but a ship’s boy standing transfixed with a bucket of slops in his hand. A bolt caught him in the throat and he gasped, crumpling to the deck. By an odd quirk the slop bucket fell upright, spilling only a little of its contents.
In my heightened state of awareness a foul whiff of the offal made my nostrils lift and a mad solution leaped into my brain.
I raced toward the boy and the bucket, dodging another flight of arrows, sixth-sense urging me to suddenly step aside; and just as I did a spear flashed by so closely it plucked my sleeve.
I grabbed the bucket by the handle, swiveled like a hammer thrower and hurled it high into the air toward the enemy galleon.
As it sailed up and up - pushed higher still by my will - I chanted:
“Fair be foul.
Sweet be cursed.
Foul be fouler still.
‘Till all is... shit!”
I admit it wasn’t a very elegant chant. Sometimes my barracks manners stumble over my wizard’s pose. But it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances.
More importantly... it worked.
A blast of cold damp wind chilled us and I saw the offal bucket swell up like a boar’s bladder. Then it exploded and the wind sheeted brown and purple filth into our enemies’ faces.
A smell so retching enveloped us that I nearly fell gagging to my knees. All around me I heard my men coughing and cursing the poisonous smell.
The pirates suffered the most, and I heard them shrieking in pain and calling on the gods to deliver them from such evil.
I forced air into my lungs, fighting the poisons I drew in. Then I blew out, sending not a spell but a prayer to any gods who might be listening to rescue us all from my foolishness.
I doubt I shall ever duplicate what came next.
My breath huffed out and at the same instant a blast of wind struck my back. The ship heeled over as a sudden squall buffeted us.
It was gone by the time we’d righted ourselves, but as I struggled to my feet I saw the galleon had been driven back.
Confusion vanished from our ships as all became fully aware of what was happening. Officers shouted, Orissan warriors rushed to obey and mount first a defense, then an offense of our own.
In times past I would have been hastening to meet our foes with a sword in my hand and fire in my eyes. My arms and legs twitched to be into the fray. But I had heavier responsibilities now. The physical fight must be left to others.
I called forth all my resources and cast out my senses. I soon found what I sought. It was a foul, prickly little presence with needle-sharp teeth and claws. It smelled of hot sulfur, like spoiled roasted eggs at a Cheapside market stall.
The creature tried to bolt away and scamper off into the Otherworlds when I approached. But I cornered it. It struck back and my spiritual self felt a nip of sharp teeth. I quickly saw it was only a puffed up little thing - a demon of some sort.
I called up the image of a large broom and crushed it like a kitchen rat.
Soon as it squeaked its last I snapped back to the real world. I saw that my men had won the upper hand and the galleons were fleeing. Carale was poised to order a chase to hunt the pirates down and punish them. He was only waiting for my approval.
I shook my head and told him to leave off. We were too overladen and clumsy to contemplate a chase. And if our enemy was wily enough to use a small demon to nearly overwhelm us, I didn’t want to underestimate him once more.
Then we learned that one of our ships had been heavily damaged in the fray. A boulder fired by a catapult from one of the enemy ships had carried off the main mast. Repairs would need to be made. And with an enemy force so near we’d have to find a safe place to make them. This meant we’d have to cut short our voyage, skip Antero Bay and the other trading post and retire to a safe position to fix our sister ship.
When that was done we set sail for home.
“As you said,” my brother observed when I was done, “it was a small incident. You dealt with it successfully and from what I can gather you did everything properly afterwards.”
He peered at me closely. “Why does it still trouble you, sister dear?”
I sighed. “On reflection, there are several reasons. The first is personal. I was caught napping. That offends my pride. The second is still personal. The magical attack was mounted by such a puny thing, how could it have so nearly succeeded?
“Then it occurred to me that the demon I encountered might be a Favorite. A creature operating under a greater wizard’s will.”
“Do you think that’s the case?” my brother asked.
“Yes I do,” I said. “There were small indications, I realize now. Not proof. But the faint spoor of something larger. More deadly. With a mind and purpose that little demon certainly couldn’t have.”
“The flag you saw,” Amalric said, “rings the chimes of my memory. But I still can’t recollect where I’ve heard of it before.”
“That’s another thing,” I said. “On our return journey I revisited an old shaman I’d befriended before. When I described the flag to him he became excited. He said the banner was that of the Ice Bear King. An ice chieftain known only in legend. A piratical tyrant who terrorized the region many years before, but who was dead for at least a century.
“The shaman said some enterprising villain must have adopted the Ice Bear King’s ancient standard to cow ignorant fools into submission.”
“I think he’s probably right, don’t you, Rali?” my brother asked.
I nodded. “It’s the most likely explanation. But it doesn’t diminish whoever that rogue is. He’s got more than bluff to back him up. He’s got wizardly skills as well.”
“You’re also worried about the trading posts, aren’t you?” Amalric said.
“I can’t help but feel I abandoned them when I turned back,” I said.
“Even though they have more than sufficient arms and soldiers to protect themselves?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t they also have two of Orissa’s most skilled Evocators to guard against a magical attack such as you experienced? Lord Serano and Lord Searbe, if I recall.”
“Even so,” I said. “I fear for them. Especially for the people at AnteroBay where Lord Searbe is posted. AnteroBay isn’t that far from where I sighted the pirates.”
“It would be very expensive to make an unscheduled voyage back to those parts,” Amalric said. “Especially one that was equipped with enough forces to quickly overwhelm whoever this false Ice Bear King is.”
“I know that,” I said. “And I don’t have enough proof to urge you to take such a risk.”
Amalric thought for a minute. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll send a fast scouting ship out. Something small that will go unnoticed but will have a fierce bite if trapped. They can sniff around then head for the two trading posts to see if all is well.”
I should’ve been relieved. But I wasn’t. My forehead and shoulders were tight and aching with tension.
My brother, ever sensitive to my mood, grimaced. “You want to head that scouting party, don’t you, Rali?” he guessed.
“I must go, Amalric,” I said. “I feel those people are my responsibility.”
“Ever the warrior captain,” my brother said, grinning. “You’ll never get it out of your blood, will you?”
“I guess not,” I said. “And I’m not sure I ought to. I opened that area up. I put those people down. And I promised to return.”
“But you didn’t promise them complete safety,” Amalric said. “They’re all experienced people. They know the risk in such savage regions.”
“I’ll put it this way, then,” I said. “If you were me... what would you do?”
Amalric answered without hesitation. “I’d demand to go,” he said.
“Then I suppose that’s what I’m doing,” I said. “Demanding to go.”
“Then go you shall, sister dear,” Amalric said. “Go you shall.”
Some weeks later the scouting ship was fitted out and ready to depart. I took a small force of hardy warriors. They were all men, for it’s nearly impossible to find a former Maranon Guardswoman.
Most of us would prefer to die than leave that sisterhood of arms. I’m one of the few who have ever chosen a different path and I’ve told you my reasons for it. And although I’m no longer an official member of the Guard, in my heart I will always be one of their number.
For that reason I made a short pilgrimage before I left.
We of the sisterhood have a small temple at Galana - some three days’ hard ride from Orissa. It’s a simple little stone building set in a graceful wood - no more than a treelot, really.
The surrounding area consists of rolling hills and farmland, cared for by Guardswomen who are no longer able to fight. Some have suffered wounds of the flesh, some of the spirit, some of both. Old warrior women also spend their final days in Galana and all who are able see to the needs of the farm and their less fortunate sisters.
It was a hot day, a dry day, a day of crackling leaves and prickly skin when I was escorted through the gates of Galana.
There were many comfortable barracks to house the women and I noted with professional interest that the encampment included a low hill with a few cave entrances. The whole region was ringed with hills and mountains and it seemed to me Galana was well situated to fend off any threats from those heights.
I made polite talk with the silver-haired commander, praising the farm and inspecting the small force she kept ready in case some unforeseen threat arose. I complimented her people and preparations, although I really barely noticed anything or anyone in particular. I was anxious to get to the temple and consult my goddess’ oracle.
I went in alone, put a chit into the box near the entrance - promising a fat bullock for sacrifice - and approached the altar.
It was cool in the temple and dust motes played in the single beam of light that peeped down through a glassed over hole in the peaked roof. It was a gate for the goddess to enter, or exit.
Old faint frescoes decorated the walls, dramatizing the many trials and triumphs of the Guard over the centuries. To the right of the goddess’ idol was a freshly painted picture commemorating my own battle with the Archon not many years before.
I grimaced when I saw the idealized picture of myself, bloody sword in one hand, the Archon’s head dangling from the other. It didn’t happen that way and I wished I were as beautiful as the picture made me, with a waist so slender and breasts so high that it must have made many a woman despair of her own figure when she saw such perfection.
I know I certainly did.
And it was supposed to be me, after all.
On the way to the altar I stopped at a small raised pool. It was enclosed by a low marble wall and I leaned over the stone to dip my fingers into the water. My image was reflected in the flat, silvery surface. I had to smile at the reflected image. A wavery reminder of just how far I was from being the figure of heroic perfection portrayed in the frieze. To be sure, I had nothing to complain about for I come from a handsome family. I had my father’s blue far-seeing eyes and was blessed with my mother’s slender figure and fair hair and skin.
The image broke when I scooped up the perfumed holy water. I sprinkled myself, feeling instantly cool and refreshed, and went to the altar where the idol of Maranonia waited.
I knelt on the steps and gazed up at the statue of Maranonia in her ever watchful, ever
truth-seeking pose. I whispered a prayer urging her blessing for the journey I was about to undertake.
I’m not certain of my view of the gods at that time. Perhaps I’d grown cynical as many Evocators do after they’ve wrought miracles of their own for a time. Regardless, I remember feeling a little foolish as I made my plea. Wondering for just a moment if my prayers and obedience were being offered to nothing more than a lovely image an artist made from dead stone - no more real than the picture of myself on the temple walls.
But as I knelt there, knees growing numb on the cold, hard steps, the beam of light suddenly broadened and deepened. There was a rush of air, the sound of swishing robes and the clank of armor.
