The Reaver Road

by Dave Duncan

  "My men and I were dispatched in search of able-bodied volunteers of good character to aid our citizens in their arduous labor of raising the walls. And, while you hardly measure up to Corporal Fotius as a paradigm of manhood—nor would you ever be chosen to pose for a statue of Immortal Balor in the temple—I descry that you are healthy, acceptably thewed, and may be worthy of the daily gruel with which our civic leaders will reward your willing service."

  Paying no heed to the smirking soldiers closing in around me, I stooped and selected the largest remaining fragment of my linen shirt. I knotted it expertly around my loins. It was less than adequate, but I would still be one of the better-dressed members of the company.

  "I am at your service, Captain."

  "That much was evident from the first," Publian said.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  2: The End of a Tether

  I have been part of a slave gang often enough. Having just been washed in the river, this one was considerably more pleasant than most in my experience, and I marched willingly over to the end of the line, cooperating as the bronze collar was locked around my neck. I noted a few surprising points, though.

  The pickings had been poor. There were thirteen men in the coffle, and only one of them looked capable of surviving very long in the stone quarry that was our most probable destination. That one was as stalwart as the hulking Corporal Fotius—more imposing, even, as more of him was visible. A ragged poorly healed scar angled down from his collarbone to his hip, and an arrow wound in his calf made him limp. Furthermore, his back bore an assortment of red and purple welts.

  This titan had been placed at the rear of the line, and burdened with the unused length of chain. When I was locked in behind him, he shot a furious glare at me under brows as imposing as battlements, baring teeth in his sodden jungle of beard. His black hair hung in wet tangles to his shoulders.

  Correct procedure would have been to put this most dangerous specimen near the middle, and to load the leftover chain on a pony, so that the gang would be tethered at both ends. Captain Publian Fotius was being curiously inefficient.

  However—as I once remarked to Vlad the Opprobrious, or possibly his grandfather—the only thing that ever surprises me is the expected. I did not, therefore, seek to advise the captain on the finer points of his trade, and I shouldered the weighty, corroded burden without complaint, although I could see from abrasions on my predecessor's shoulders that it was going to be onerous. When the escort mounted up and the coffle lurched off along the towpath, I quietly redistributed the load so that a few stray loops hung down my back, for the two young lads equipped with whips looked unpleasantly enthusiastic.

  Of late my feet had grown accustomed to sandals, and the chain grew excruciatingly hot in the fierce sun, but I ambled along cheerfully at the requisite pace, whistling softly through my teeth. My main concern was that Unvanquished Zanadon might feed its slaves in the mornings and not the evenings. Had I been a praying man, I might have mentioned that worry to the gods. The most interesting activity in my field of view was the tortuous paths the sweat beads found down the battered back of the hairy giant in front of me.

  The chain clinked, the ponies' hooves thumped, and my belly rumbled. As we departed the Reaver Road, though, we began to see more settled country, secured by the might of the city—we passed several troops of armored men. The fields here had not yet been looted, nor the hamlets burned. Peasants bent to their toil without looking up as we trudged by.

  Captain Fotius had stated literal truth when he said that an hour's walk would bring us within sight of Zanadon. Truly its granite walls and beetling towers are an inspiring sight, and I was stirred by seeing at last what I had viewed so often in my dreams. Regrettably, the great city stands at the top of a solitary and imposing mesa. It is visible a long way out across the plain.

  Soon we began to see traders and mounted caravans and women carrying bundles on their heads. Among these, inhabitants of the city itself could be recognized by their grander attire.

  The climate of the Spice Lands is benign, and only in the hills is clothing ever needed for warmth. Even the winter rains are usually warm enough to ignore. In the villages men tie a cloth around their loins and leave it at that. In the cities that most basic of garments has been expanded into an ornate swath, whose detail comes close to being a cult, rigidly regulated. The lawmakers fuss endlessly over the colors, the patterns, the fineness of the cloth, and the number of times it has been wound around. The height of the lower hem is even more critical. Slaves and the very lowly must leave both knees in view, but increasing status is indicated by covering first one knee, then two, and so on, until the wealthy and important drape both legs to the ankle.

  To the initiated, a swath reveals the wearer's rank or trade, his fortune and family and patron god, and how many children he has sired—they work those loincloths harder than the king of Klulith's ox! Moreover, the swath must be held by a single pin, located just below the navel—this is obligatory. The ornamentation permitted on the pin is a study in itself.

  The cities' sumptuary laws usually allow cloaks to some groups—the rich, the royal, and the religious—but most men rarely wear anything above the waist except pot-shaped hats and square black beards. In some cities a man may not marry until his beard reaches down to his nipples, which is why in Urgalon pretty girls are known as "neck-benders."

  Women seem to wear anything they please.

  As evening fell, we drew near to the base of the ramp, and the soldiers halted to rest their mounts and eat a brief snack. They allowed us to lie down in a cool, reedy ditch after the ponies had been watered. Strict penalties were announced for anyone who spoke, and one of the whip-bearers patrolled up and down the line to compel obedience.

  I arranged my face close to the back of my neighbor's head, and waited until the guard was at the far end of the line.

  "Omar," I said without moving my lips.

  "Thorian," came the whisper.

  I remarked that we were going to be worked to death or slain when the siege began, to conserve food.

  The nod was barely perceptible, but quick. I was encouraged to surmise that this Thorian had more than bone inside his thatch, not counting the lice. I closed my eyes until the guard had come and gone, and then asked if he could break the chain without my help.

  He shrugged. He must think he had a chance, though, or he would not have been so annoyed at losing the hindmost place.

  "If you need me, stoop," I said, "so I can reach over you."

  Another nod.

  "I'll tell you when the time is right. And let me lead when we run, for I can take us to safe haven."

  The guard returned and departed.

  "I may need your help carrying this load," I admitted reluctantly. A companion who could snap one chain could probably snap two and depart alone.

  "Quarry?" he muttered. "They won't take us into the city tonight."

  "Yes they will. I am certain."

  Cracks and screams from farther up the line ended our attempts at conversation. That was just as well, I thought. Thorian might next inquire how well I knew Zanadon.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  3: The Great Gate

  As we began to ascend the ramp, the soldiers dismounted and proceeded on foot, leading their ponies. The incline is so long and the ascent so high that the army has standing orders for all returning patrols to proceed on foot, lest they overstrain tired mounts. Most officers have more sense than to antagonize their men for the sake of a footling regulation, but Captain Publian Fotius was an exception.

  The burly Gramian Fotius appeared near the rear of the line, and he was not in a jovial mood. A vexed expression marred the customary tranquility of his countenance. He was leading his pony with one hand, and in the other he bore a whip of plaited oxhide.

  He paced along for a while beside Thorian, eyeing him as a strong man may seek to take the measure of another, for they were of comparable stature. The s
lave, despite the other's social and strategic advantage, matched him scowl for scowl.

  The soldier opened the conversation.

  "Want some more pain, Slave?" he inquired jocularly. "Want me to do your back again?"

  "No."

  "Didn't hear that. Speak up."

  "Please don't flog me anymore," Thorian growled.

  Fotius grunted in disappointment and thought for a while.

  "You got a wound," he remarked at last, pointing at the half-healed scar that transected the other's torso. "Where did you get that wound, Slave?"

  "Fighting Vorkan scum."

  Fotius then pointed out that in future Slave Thorian would be required to fight nothing more than blocks of stone, and that those were undoubtedly more suited to his abilities and prowess.

  The other indicated that he was entirely satisfied to leave the Vorkan problem in the hands of the capable Corporal Fotius, and had every confidence that the blood-drenched reavers of Dom Wilth, razers of Forbin, and rapists of Polrain would suspend their advance, cease their ravaging, and flee in terror immediately upon learning the identity of their new opponent. In cultured and measured discourse, Thorian further implied that, wound or no wound, he would be happy to take on the corporal at any contest or form of competition known to man or god, and would thereupon employ his person to clean dog droppings from the gutter. And furthermore, he was at a loss to know why the corporal was perspiring so copiously at the moment, on this trifling hill.

  I concluded that he was a man of spirit.

  Fotius might reasonably have pointed out the unfairness of Thorian's final observation, in that he was struggling with a skittish pony in a crowd and was personally encased in almost half his own weight of bronze-upholstered bullhide, while the slave wore only a metal collar and a small rag. He did not do so, but who among us has not at some time overlooked a possible witty rejoinder and only thought of it much later, when the debate was over and the opportunity missed?

  The earlier challenge having escaped his notice altogether, due to the careful phrasing employed, the corporal decided to drop back and taunt me instead. I could sympathize with his frustration—there could be little satisfaction in flogging a chained captive, and in any case the press of the crowd would inhibit the limber arm motion needed for satisfactory results.

  In most realms I have known, it is decreed that travelers when passing must veer to one side of the way, the choice being specified. On the great ramp of Unvanquished Zanadon, the law explicitly requires those approaching to walk in the middle and those descending to stay on the outside. I do not know the reason for this, but I do know that the result is to add greatly to the confusion of traffic when the ramp is, as it then was, crowded to overflowing. The parapets are low and in places the drop from the sides is considerable.

  Gramian Fotins eyed me with a puzzled expression. I was the madman who had walked up to his Uncle Publian and just asked to be made a slave. I had not been ridden down and clubbed like the others. He could tell I was crazy just from my smile.

  "Teller of tales, huh?" he said.

  "Trader of tales. I tell you one, you tell me one. Fair trade."

  Bronze jangled as the corporal shrugged. "You start."

  A descending camel train caused a momentary delay. Fotius's pony reacted in the way ponies always do to camels. The corporal eventually settled the matter by striking the beast with his fist, half stunning it. Then he was ready to listen, and I could begin.

  "Ever since I came to the Spice Lands—"

  "You weren't born here?"

  "No," I said. "I was born on the Isle of Evermist, in the far north. My father was a carver of ivory and my mother a professional wrestler. You want to hear a tale of Evermist or of the Spice Lands?"

  "Spice Lands, of course."

  It did not matter to me. "Well, then. Often since I came to the Spice Lands, I have been told tales of the mischievous god Nusk."

  "Never heard of him."

  "He is the god of doorways and beginnings."

  "Oh, Nask, you mean."

  "Perchance he is known here as Nask. He is said also to be the god of adolescence, frequently associated with virgins. Many tales depict him in that wise, as a comely youth of spirit. It is told among the Wailmanians, for example, how Sky, the Father of Gods, discovered Nusk among the rushes of the Nathipi River, philandering with a group of mortal maidens. Being most exceedingly wroth at his wilful son's behavior, Sky ordered him to complete a great work for each of the maidens he had thus dishonored so that mortals would evermore be reminded of his shame."

  "What was he doing with the maidens?"

  I sighed. "The details were not specified, but I fancy much what you yourself do, Corporal, when a group of the lovely creatures besets you in a secluded place. The works that Nusk was thus constrained to attempt were to be monuments so mighty that no mortal could have achieved them."

  "How many maidens?" he demanded, showing genuine interest.

  "Your perception has penetrated to the nub of the heart of the center of the mystery! By establishing how many works the god completed, we may know how many maidens he had used so shamefully. The estimates vary, depending on the teller of the tale. In all regions west of the Nathipi, though, it is agreed that this great granite ramp of Zanadon, rising so straight and direct from the plain to the giddy height we have now achieved, level with the clifftop, must be considered first among all the wonders of the god. You will not argue with that?"

  Gramian Fotius considered the question, crunching up his forehead under the brow of his helmet. Before he could reply, the parade stumbled to a halt, jammed in the press before the gates of the city. Grunting angrily, he went shouldering forward to see what the delay was, dragging his pony behind him.

  Thus I never did hear his conclusions.

  Relieved of the obligation to entertain the corporal, I thankfully slid my burden of bronze chain to the ground. Flexing my aching shoulders and rubbing my scrapes, I appraised the marvels before me.

  Truly, all the legends of the world do not do justice to the great gateway of Unvanquished Zanadon.

  The gates themselves are mighty and many layered, each twice as thick as a man is tall, wrought of thick oaks from the forest of Ghill, and bound in bronze. Teams of plodding oxen turn the windlasses that move them, but so long is the ramp leading up from the plain and so high the watchtowers above them that no marauder has ever managed to charge the portal fast enough to prevent their closing.

  The gates themselves are therefore generally assessed as the second of the wonders of Nusk.

  And the granite walls that enclose the city are assuredly a third. They stretch off out of view on either hand, topping the sheer cliffs of the mount. I have seen more city walls than other men, I suppose, but never any to match those of Zanadon. Why the elders should seek to raise them farther was an enigma to puzzle a god.

  But then I decided, as most visitors do, that the two figures flanking the arch are greater marvels still. My dreams had never shown me those. Carved in high relief from the warm brown stone of the walls, they shine like living flesh. Their eyes are inset in ivory and jet, so cunningly fashioned by ancient craft that no viewer can evade their fearsome gaze. They watch each traveler arriving, from the time he first sets foot on the apron of the ramp, far out on the plain, until he passes between them. No mortal may enter Zanadon unnoticed by its gods.

  On the left stands Holy Maiana and on the right Immortal Balor—eternal lovers, parents, and preservers of Zanadon, twin children of Father Sky and Mother Earth.

  Maiana is crowned by her crescent, inset in silver, and the horns alone are four times the height of a man. Her nipples are inlaid with a man's weight of precious rubies; the hair of her head is set in diamonds and that of her groin in sapphires. Immortal Balor is even larger. His sword and armor are of solid gold, his beard of darkest hematite.

  My enchantment was broken as a passing mule attempted to nip my knee. I stepped back hurriedly, almost tri
pping over the heap of chain at my feet and jarring the tether that bound my neck to Thorian's. The big man choked and grunted angrily.

  I apologized, and aimed a kick at the hindquarters of the departing mule. The mule retaliated, narrowly missing two yellow-cloaked priests and a laden porter, and they were all swept away down the ramp by the press of the crowd.

  The guards had vanished in the throng, so it was safe to talk.

  "It seems to me," I remarked, "that the Vorkans have small need to vanquish Zanadon itself. Even if they cannot penetrate the gates, they can loot those two figures. They will thereby gain more riches than may be culled from a total pillage of all other cities in the Spice Lands."

  Thorian chuckled into his matted beard. His eyes gleamed black under the sweaty tangle of his hair. "Then you have not heard the story of Susian, O Trader of Tales?"

  I admitted that I knew of him as Great King of Thereby, and something of the wonders of cruelty and conquest he achieved, but I recalled no narrative relating him to Unvanquished Zanadon.

  "Then hear it now," said the giant, "for it was where you stand that Susian met the fate he so eminently deserved. Having conquered all the nations between the Kulthiar Range and the sea, and all peoples from Forbin to the Edge of the Sown, Susian of Thereby came in his might to challenge Zanadon, and his hordes darkened the plain."

  "Hordes always darken plains," I observed.

  "Darker than usual," said Thorian. "The gates were slammed in his beard, of course. He marched three times around the city, promising mercy if it surrendered, and the priests hurled cats at him from the walls."

  "Why cats?"

  "That is not recorded. Apparently it was an insult."

  "Doubtless." I apologized for my interruption.

  "Then Susian, thinking as you do, that to strip the riches from the guardian god and goddess would amply repay his efforts, began construction of a scaffold. Two scaffolds, I estimate, one on either hand."

  "A noble ambition," I admitted. "The cliffs fall sheer a hundred spans beneath the holy feet."