He pondered what the departed sage had told him. From his youth in High Medurim he recalled snatches of conversation heard when he stood and begged for bread outside the great seminaries. Erimenes’ philosophy of self-denial had enjoyed its popularity—if that was the word—ten centuries ago, but there were still a number of monastic cults devoted to following the master’s doctrine.
If only the faithful could see their master now!
Personally, Fost couldn’t see the appeal of self-denial. To do without tall flagons of ale and warm, full-bodied wantons to share his bed… he shook his head. Life was too soon ended by Hell Call. He could understand the philosophical arguments in favor of abstinence—but look where it had gotten Erimenes. He had life everlasting, true, but it was a pallid thing, lifeless. If that was the cost of immortality, Fost would gladly face the demon of death when the time came and die with a last defiant shout of laughter.
A high-pitched yelp of warning from Wigma made him alert. Instinctively Fost looked over the traces and harnesses, but they were free of fouling. Raissa echoed her mate’s cry. Fost looked back along the road.
A cold lump settled in his belly. Dust grew in a spume from the highway perhaps a mile behind: half a dozen men on battle mounts, if Fost read the dust aright. They could not be couriers in such numbers. And travelers rarely ventured so near the Southern Wastes this near the end of the warm season. That left one possibility.
Brigands.
“On! Faster!” Fost cracked his short lash, urging the dogs to greater speed. He had no hope of outracing the long-limbed battle mounts, fierce dogs so huge they could carry an armored man, but he could try to tire them. His sled team had far more endurance than the war-dogs.
The cloud came closer as the minutes raced past. His dogs breathed hard, straining in their harnesses. His pursuers’ mounts were fresh, while his animals were wearied from a half-day’s travel. His tactic had failed.
He thrust a heavy boot into the dirt and slewed the sled off the road toward a clump of ofilos trees. On rough terrain the riding-dogs could still outrun his team, but amid the heavy-limbed trees and tangled brush he’d have a better chance of eluding his enemies.
“What in the name of the Three and Twenty Wise Ones of Agift are you doing?” cried Erimenes from his jug.
“We’ve got bandits after us. I’m trying to evade them.”
“Bandits?” Erimenes said hopefully. “Why not stop and fight them? You’re a skilled bladesman. That was a splendid display in that alley last night. Such strength and skill, such shedding of blood.”
“Have done. To fight one man or even three, yes, that may be done. But six or more? Sheer madness!”
“But you cannot flee! That would be cowardice.”
“Easy for you to say, who are already dead.”
“I long to experience the death-throes of your enemies, the triumph on your face as you slay them. Do you not feel a special thrill when you spill a foeman’s lifeblood? Don’t your sexual desires soar?”
Fost tried to ignore the spirit as he guided his sled between the silent trees. Here in the forest the dog riders couldn’t all attack him at once. He drove the team at a desperate speed.
The headlong race ended when a dog put a foot down a small animal’s burrow. The impetus of the sled snapped its leg. The dog fell with a howl and instantly entangled the harness.
Cursing, Fost leaped off the runners and bent over the animal. “You have been a faithful companion, Balf,” he said, stroking the matted fur of the dog’s head. “Now I must do my duty to you.”
A quick slash of his knife sent blood gushing from the dog’s throat to soak into the thick carpet of dead leaves. Fost hacked the corpse free of the harness and yelled to the dogs to move on. He jumped onto the sled as it went by, leaving Balf silent and cooling on the ground.
With a gap in the team, Raissa and Wigma redoubled their efforts, and the other dogs followed their example. The sled flew across the slippery, leaf-clad earth. The dogs’ panting, the thumping of their paws, the creak and jingle of the harness resounded in Fost’s ears.
“Fight!” Erimenes shouted. “Do you wish the rogues to think you craven? Surely you are able to defend yourself.”
It was no time to explain the realities of mortal combat to the sage.
“Don’t you want to be delivered to Kest-i-Mond?” Fost asked, glancing over his shoulder. No pursuers were in sight. “If you’re taken, he’ll have to pay a handsome price for your return. He’ll be wroth with you.”
“Pah! Kest-i-Mond wants knowledge only I possess. He will pay any amount for me, and little count the cost. And what matters it to me who claims ownership of the pot in which I reside? What is ,the nature of ownership? Is it purely possession or…”
“No philosophizing on my time, you long-winded wraith. I’m racing for my life. Yours is forfeit these fourteen centuries past.”
The sage started to speak. The sled hurtled toward a shaggy-barked tree overhanging the game path the dogs followed. Fost seized the jar and leaped upward to grab a stout limb. With the philosopher’s jug in the crook of his arm, he pulled himself up and began climbing the thick, rough trunk.
Green leaves closed about him like a shroud. The footfalls of the war-dogs pounded closer. Fost tried to make himself as small as possible.
“I never believed a man of your abilities would be capable of such a thing,” Erimenes cried. “Running from a noble fight!”
“Quiet,” Fost snarled. “What’s noble about being sliced to bloody ribbons? Be silent, you fugitive from Hell Call!”
The first of the dog riders passed under the tree in hot pursuit of the unoccupied sled. The rider was small and wiry with a black cloak thrown over his deep purple tunic. No mere bandits, these. Fost’s heart hammered as he recognized the curved blades and wicked barbed darts of soldiers of the SkyCity, the City of Sorcery.
What could the men of the Soaring World want with him?
The only answer was the spirit in the jar. For all his bloodthirstiness and pomposity, Erimenes possessed some secret of enormous value. And these men, like the unknown assailants of the night before, were ready to kill Fost to get it.
He counted four riders. As the fifth went by Erimenes sang out, “Here, up in the tree! Dolts. A plague on you, look up!”
Fost hit the pot with the base of his fist. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, sotto voce. “He would have heard, had he been nearer.”
“I’m trying to save you from years of mental anguish. You should fight. If you don’t, your honor will be tarnished. You will turn in your bed at night, worrying that you are less a man.”
“In the tree!” came shouts from below. A sixth rider had heard the dead philosopher discoursing. Fost reacted reflexively. He dropped onto the broad back of the battle-mount, landing behind its rider and slitting the man’s throat with a quick slash of his dagger.
Fost hurled the dying man from the saddle and tried to get his feet into the stirrups. The dog snarled and reared. Fost fell to the ground. He stood up, only to fall flat once more to avoid a sword cut from the fifth rider.
“See?” Erimenes’ jug had fallen and rolled against the bole of the tree, where it lay unharmed. “You are capable of heroic _ feats when properly motivated. You’ll thank me for this in the future, mark my words!”
“I’d mark your back with a whip, had you a back,” Fost panted. His sword sang from its sheath to engage the dog rider’s blade. Broad paws slapped the ground as the others returned. The need for speed took precedence over chivalry; Fost cut the brindled war-dog’s legs from beneath it. It fell, frothing and snapping at its injured limbs, and spilling the rider.
Fost gave the soldier Hell Call, then snatched up the dead man’s blade and threw it at a charging blue-black dog. It sank to the hilt in the muscular chest. Bloody foam burst from the dog’s nostrils. It toppled, pinning its rider’s leg.
Fost had no time to finish off the trapped man. The others rushed the courier. He
ducked beneath a silver arc of hard-swung steel and drove his left hand upward. The short, broad blade found a sheath in the man’s armpit. The dog rider gave a hoarse cry as his mount carried him past, wrenching the dagger from Fost’s grip. The dead man tumbled onto the fallen leaves.
“Dismount. Take him afoot.” The scar-faced leader reined in and dropped lithely to the ground. His scimitar twitched in the air like a living thing. “From the sides.”
If the two SkyCity men were dismayed at three of their number dying and another being disabled in such short order, they didn’t show it. They advanced on Fost, the officer on the left and the other swinging wide to take him in a pincers movement. Fost smiled grimly. He was determined to kill one before the other fed a foot of cold steel into his back.
“A superb fight! Blood everywhere. A wonderment!” applauded Erimenes. Fost had a momentary urge to smash the jar before he fell. He didn’t know if that would dissipate the ancient philosopher’s life-essence and send him at last to Hell, but it would be an interesting experiment.
There was no time for that. The black and purple clad riders pushed him back, trying to herd him away from the spirit’s jar. They wanted to insure he couldn’t pick it up and flee.
Flight was the last thing on Fost Longstrider’s mind. He let his opponents set their pattern of slow, inexorable advance. Then he lunged, flicked a scimitar aside with a forehand stroke, and cut through the right-hand man’s throat just below the point of his neatly trimmed beard. As the rider sank down, drowning in his own blood, the officer closed with a tigerish rush. Fost whirled, throwing up his sword in a blocking motion. The movement came too late. The officer brought his blade down in a slash that laid Fost’s back open and sent pain shattering through his spine. Fost gasped and fell forward on his face. He lay, unmoving.
The scar-faced officer raised his hand to slay the injured courier. Then he lowered it and turned away. The discipline of the SkyCity was absolute. He had been ordered to return to the Floating Realm with the jar and the spirit it contained without delay, and that was what he would do. Secondary concerns, such as the pleasure of gutting the lowborn scum who had slain four of his men, were luxuries he would not allow himself.
Besides, the courier was as good as dead.
The dog rider walked to the tree and picked up the jug. “You, my black-cloaked friend,” Erimenes said brightly, “are an excellent swordsman. Tell me, do you enjoy a good tumble in the hay with a handsome wench from time to time? If so, we might become fast friends.”
The officer stared down at the jar, perplexed. He had been warned the spirit might prove uncooperative. Nothing had prepared him for Erimenes trying to beg friendship from him.
He was still puzzling over this turn of events when Fost killed him.
The courier came from behind to drive a dagger, taken from a fallen rider, to the crossguard, just below the man’s left shoulder blade. The officer gave a small, surprised cough and collapsed bonelessly.
Fost dropped to his knees and shook the jug as hard as he could.
“You double-dealing spirit,” he choked. “Why did you betray me? If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you. I call on the Great Ultimate to give you life so that I may reave it away from you again!”
He continued shaking the jug until Erimenes began to cry. The sound of such pure sorrow made Fost stop. “I am so weak,” moaned Erimenes. “This is why I espoused self-denial. I could never cope with temptation. You—you’re so strong. You can live life to the utmost!”
He sniffled, and, even half-dead and dazed, Fost wondered how he accomplished it without benefit of a nose.
“I, however, I have become addicted to sensation since my death. I cannot control myself. I must see blood. I must see carousal. I must, I must!”
Fost dropped the jar. Dizziness assailed him. He was torn between disgust and pity tor the tormented, treacherous spirit. He tore the SkyCity officer’s cloak into strips and stanched the flow of blood, then sat weakly with his back to a tree. He was as weak as a day-old pup, but he lived. In spite of the odds, he lived.
A moan of pain came to his ears. He looked around. Not far away lay the last dog rider, still pinned under the corpse of his massive dog. Now, Fost thought, we’ll learn why Erimenes is so valuable.
Unable to walk, he crawled on hands and knees. He was not halfway to the pinned man when a raven flapped down from the sky and landed on a black-cloaked shoulder. With a quick peck the bird took out the rider’s eye.
A shriek rent the forest. Another peck plucked out the other eye. A final stab of the iron-hard beak penetrated the soldier’s brain. He convulsed once and fell back dead.
The raven swiveled its head as only a bird can, and regarded Fost with such malevolence that the courier’s nausea turned to fear. It spread its wings and rose skyward. Fost watched it vanish through the canopy of leaves. Then he fainted.
The raven’s mood was bleak as it winged westward. The SkyCity was its nest, but it was also the lair in which its mistresses’ wrath crouched like a waiting beast. The sorceress would be infuriated that six more of her men, SkyCity troops this time, not mere hirelings, had failed at such a simple task. The raven wished another could deliver this message.
It beat stolidly through the air. No war-eagles soared out to meet it. Evidently the enchantress had given orders none was to hinder her winged messenger. It flew in an arched window. The brass perch felt cold and alien in its talons. It cawed once at the sight of its mistress sitting in stony silence with an indigo cloak wrapped about her, awaiting its report.
“Mistress of the Clouds,” it said, “I bring bad tidings.”
“Failure.” The word rang coldly, a death sentence.
“Y-yes, Mistress. Fost Longstrider still lives, still possesses the jar you seek.”
“My soldiers.”
“All dead, Exalted One.”
“Just as well. All would have forfeited their lives for permitting this lowborn lout to best them.” She crossed her arms beneath full breasts and began to pace the length of the small room. “Fools, all of them, fools! So simple a chore, and yet it ends in abject failure.”
“Do not despair, Mistress,” the raven said nervously. “This Fost is mighty, indeed, and cunning.”
She turned on Mm, fury brewing in her eyes. “Enough! How dare you suggest this scum can flout the power of the SkyCity? How dare you? Prince Rann expended forty men learning of that amulet and he who carries the knowledge of it locked in a vaporous brain. I personally conjured for long hours with potent scrying spells to find the jug—and my powers are second to none in the Sundered Realm, including my dear sister. And you dare tell me a simple courier is able to thwart my plans? Must I leave the SkyCity in this hour of unrest? Must I personally do everything? I dare not leave Rann to deal with such things. So I make plans, simple, easily obeyed plans, and they go awry. My plans! How dare you fail!” she screeched.
The raven looked into her cobalt eyes and saw its own death. Wings exploded from its sides as it tried to flee out the open window. The enchantress was quicker. A slim finger pointed. Lambent light shot forth and bathed the creature in flames. It screamed once, piteously, and fell to the floor, a cindered, lifeless ruin.
The stench of burned flesh and feathers filled the chamber. The woman turned and stalked from the room without a glance at the body of her messenger. There were plans to be made for securing the shade of Erimenes the Ethical.
And plans, as well, for the death of the man called Fost.
CHAPTER TWO
A wasp woke Fost by daubing mud in his ear to build its nest. He lay still, too weak to fend off the creature. It soon departed to seek more mud and he rolled over.
Dizziness twisted his senses. He clutched at the moist ground. The spinning died, and Fost struggled to sit up. Agony shot through his back. He reached around to touch the sword cut and regretted it immediately. Pain drew a red curtain before his eyes. “By the Great Ultimate, I hope never to feel this miserable aga
in,” he groaned.
“It was your own fault,” said Erimenes primly. “Had you fought like a man from the first, you would have won handily. But no, you had to hide and make them ferret you out. You got what you deserved.”
“Demons rend you and your sanctimonious prattle,” Fost said. “I only want to sleep.” He curled up once more, savoring the warmth of sunlight on his aching body. He slept more easily this time.
The setting sun roused him. As he pulled himself upright, he found his hunger nearly as sharp as the pain of his wound. He whistled shrilly, then listened. In a moment he heard the creak of leather and the clinking of the sled’s harness. Raissa and Wigma trotted from the dense wood to lap eagerly at his face.
“Old friends,” he said shakily, ruffling their fur. “Thank you for standing by me.”
He dragged himself to his feet and rummaged through the foodstuffs packed in the sled. He drew out cloth-wrapped rations. From the dogs’ bloodied muzzles, he knew they’d found food for themselves, and indeed there was meat aplenty, harvested by their master’s sword arm. He shrugged and began to eat.
The five surviving sled dogs curled up and went to sleep. Finishing his food and washing it down with a swig of brackish water from his canteen, Fost decided a nap was an excellent idea. He lay down between the two lead dogs. While they couldn’t compare with Eliska as bedmates, he was in no shape for the activities he’d engaged in with her.
Erimenes’ voice woke him with the dawn. “Slugabed! Will you sleep away your life? Get up, man, go forth and live. Experience the rich world around you. Fight, love, hate, do something!”
“Demon in a jar,” Fost said deliberately, “listen well to me. If ever again you speak unbidden, I’ll seek out the deepest crevasse on this planet and heave you into it. I don’t have to listen to your words. You’re an item to be delivered, and nothing more.”
“Nay, I am far more! Locked in my memory is a secret which would cause brother to kill brother, daughter to slay mother. It is—”
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