The Reaver Road

by Dave Duncan

  Shalial raised her eyes and studied me. "If the ichor runs so nearly pure in your veins, then you must have lived for hundreds of years, like those first mortals of the Golden Days?"

  "No, I am the age I seem, but of course I hope to have many centuries of life left to me."

  "The way you are going, you should perhaps not count on them."

  "You comprehend what I am risking for your sake."

  "You expect me to go with you now? You and your taciturn henchman?"

  "You must, or you will be buried in this mausoleum for the rest of your life. This night is the turning point. Now you must decide."

  "Go where?"

  "To the arms of the man you truly love, and who truly loves you."

  She said, "Mmm?" thoughtfully. And then, "Indeed?" And finally, "I think I have one other question."

  "Ask."

  "Why are you clad in one of the wall hangings from my father's scriptorium?"

  "You are deceived by a chance resemblance."

  "I wove that myself."

  "I wish you had mentioned the fact sooner," I said sadly.

  "It might have altered things?"

  "It might."

  "Your parentage, even?" Shalial Tharpit impaled me with a glare that her father could not have bettered, cold as a midwinter midnight, dangerous as snakes.

  I sighed. "Perhaps even that."

  "I think I feel that scream coming on again."

  "Then perhaps the time has come for me to leave. How long have I got?"

  "About five seconds."

  "I fear that may not be long enough."

  Fortunately, at that moment Thorian stepped around from behind the statue of Balor.

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  15: The Tale of Thorian

  Shalial said, "Oh!" yet again, and put her hands to her mouth. She gazed at the newcomer with wide eyes.

  As I may have mentioned, Thorian was a striking figure of a man, notable for his square beard of ebony ringlets, the gory scar across his chest and abdomen, and also sheer quantity. He kept his eyes fixed on the woman as he stalked over to us. He sat down, contriving to ripple ostentatiously all over as he did so.

  They continued to stare at each other in silence.

  I decided that the scream had been postponed indefinitely.

  "This is the man I told you of," I said. "He goes by the name of Thorian, but that is merely a nom de guerre , of course."

  The silence continued. I glanced upward, and it seemed to me that the sky was brightening above the windows.

  "His is a curious tale," I remarked. "I wish I had time to relate it."

  More silence.

  "Oh well," I added. "Let us make a start, anyway.

  "The Kingdom of Polrain—as any accomplished geographer will know—is located far to the east of here, in the hill country where the Pearls of the Sky meet the Kulthiar Range. It is a rugged frontier terrain, whose people have for immemorial ages been guardians of Maidens Pass, and thus the Spice Lands' first line of defense against invasion. Their women are deep breasted, loving, and virtuous. Their menfolk are known for their rugged integrity, their toughness, and an overt masculinity often verging on deformity."

  I dislike audiences who interrupt all the time, but it is nice to win some response. In this case, I might as well have been talking to Maiana and Balor. Indeed, they were watching me with a stony stare fraught with suspicion, whereas the other two had eyes only for each other. I had begun to feel that I should cough politely and leave.

  I didn't. "For many years, the king of Polrain was a man by the name of Nestran, a ruler of wisdom and strength, beloved of his people. Renowned for his justice, he yet tolerated no dissent, and he kept the peace with a firm hand. In the days of his strength, he sired two sons.

  "The elder was named Thorax, and the younger Bindlis, and they were as alike as wine and mud.

  "Thorax from his earliest days was a husky and lovable youth, gifted with innumerable virtues. He was physically powerful and yet exceeding gentle. He was fearsome in his duty, but mirthful in company and faithful to the gods. The family and the palace staff adored him, and as he grew in years and became more widely known throughout the land, the people's love for him spread until it knew no limits. He achieved a remarkable manhood, gifted with an awesome physical presence and unsurpassed skill in the use of arms. He was upright, just, and devout. His mind was as sharp as his sword, and all were agreed that he would equal or perhaps even surpass his father Nestran when the time came for him to rule over his people."

  Still the only reaction was a flickering from the lamp.

  "The younger son was a weakling and a coward. He was ugly to look upon, despicable in his behavior, and corrupt in his morals. When his brother was mastering sword and bow and pony—even as a stripling surpassing men of mature years—Bindlis would skulk among the palace kitchens, harassing the juvenile servants and dabbling in surreptitious baking of cupcakes. Upon reaching adolescence, he swiftly embarked upon a career of lechery and unnatural vice.

  "Thus the whole kingdom rejoiced that the elder prince was so wholesome and a fitting successor for mighty Nestran, and that the younger son had little chance to ascend the throne.

  "And in time it came to pass that the old king sank into a grievous sickness, and the people mourned his imminent passing, while yet rejoicing that he would be so well followed.

  "But, alas!"

  Thorian shot me a surprised glance. It was brief, but it was an improvement.

  "One day, when the king's final breath seemed but hours delayed, Thorax received an urgent appeal to visit one of the humble cottages situated on the hills overlooking the palace. Normally nothing would have dragged him from the vigil he kept at his father's sickbed—and I should mention that Bindlis was elsewhere, having chosen this inauspicious time to indulge in an orgy of simony and sophism—but in this case the stringency of his affections caused the elder prince to rush to the stables, spring on the back of a mighty pony that none but he could ride, and speed like a hungry swallow to answer the summons.

  "For in that lowly hovel was expiring a woman by the name of Dumpith, an insignificant peasant of no visible merit. Her one claim to note was that in her youth she had been employed in the palace as nurse to Prince Thorax."

  Now both of them were giving me their attention, or at least some of it.

  "The prince, being of an affectionate and loyal disposition, had always loved the simple woman who had cared for him in his childhood. He had seen that her later years were eased by a generous allotment, he had never forgotten her birthday, and he hastened now from the sickbed of his father to the deathbed of his nurse.

  "It was a noble gesture, and a tragic error."

  The sky was definitely growing brighter. I could see the skylight at the far end of the long chapel.

  "In that hour of disaster, the woman Dumpith repaid the prince's devotion with a gruesome disclosure. Gasping her final breaths, she revealed the true story of his origins. She narrated how a band of vagrant warriors had come wandering through the hill country in the days of her youth, and how one of them had chosen to dally with her as she tended her father's goats. Surely I need not detail how the simple rural maiden succumbed to the hardened voluptuary's blandishments? The tale is all too familiar, and in due course the usual events produced the customary result.

  "Abandoned by her paramour, shunned by her relatives, and terrified of her transgression, the girl crept away to a remote place of concealment and produced her child. The timing was such that the birth occurred on the very day that the queen in the palace was delivered of her firstborn.

  "The royal labor was hard, harder perhaps than that of the sturdy peasant wench. To save further stress upon the queen and to ensure the health of the royal heir, word was passed for a wet nurse."

  Now I had their attention, all of it.

  "Dumpith draped her best shawl over her head and went down to the palace and volunteered to suckle the royal babe.
And she falsely proclaimed that her own child had been stillborn."

  Shalial said, "Oh no!"

  "Alas, yes. And at the first opportunity, she substituted one for the other."

  "It could not be!" she cried.

  "I assure you that it is quite a common plot."

  "What did she do with the prince?"

  I shook my head sadly. "It does not bear repeating. This terrible crime she had concealed all her life, but at last confessed upon her deathbed, to her own grown son. And having done so, she fittingly expired.

  "As Thorax rode slowly back to the palace, he heard drums beating for the king whom he had always believed to be his true father."

  "But surely?" Shalial said, her eyes wide with horror. "He was the perfect successor, you said? He was the one the people wanted, you said."

  "But I also said that he was a man of honor."

  "Oh, gods!"

  "Yea. Thorax never hesitated. He at once sought out his despicable brother and told him—as soon as he had sobered him up enough to understand—that he was the only rightful heir. And having thus performed his duty, Thorax saddled a pony and rode away into the hills."

  Shalial turned to stare at Thorian. "That is awful!"

  Thorian raised a bushy black brow at me and then spoke for the first time.

  "It would be his duty to the gods, milady. A warrior must be true to his honor, or his life will be without all meaning."

  Her gaze dropped to the jagged red line upon his chest.

  "That scar?"

  "That scar," I said, "demonstrates the true horror of the crime. Hardly had the despicable Bindlis mounted the throne when the Vorkan fury swept over the passes and fell upon Polrain. A strong and crafty leader like Thorax might have rallied the fyrd in time, inspired it with courage, led it with flair, and doubtless crushed the evil horde upon the hills. He would have spared the Spice Lands their present travail. The craven Bindlis fled in terror, leaving the land leaderless. Polrain was overrun and destroyed."

  Shalial buried her face in her hands.

  "When Thorax heard of the invasion, he hastened back to serve his homeland, accompanied by a single retainer, a faithful groom who had been his friend since childhood. He was surprised upon the road by six of the Vorkan raiders. He dispatched all of them single-handed, but in the process suffered a grievous wound. The groom bore him away, and somehow kept him alive during the terrible journey that ensued, as they fled amid the sea of refugees outrunning the infestation."

  She looked up with tears sparkling on her lashes. "And then?"

  "And then, when his magnificent physique had recovered sufficiently that he might hope to wield a sword again, Thorax resolved to come to Unvanquished Zanadon and offer his expertise in the service of Balor, that he might thereby be revenged upon the reavers who had destroyed his people."

  "But those scratches upon your necks?"

  "Alas, yes. The officers of Zanadon spurn warriors from other cities. Prince Thorax was seized and fettered as a slave."

  She moaned. "And you, also, the faithful childhood friend!"

  I had not seen myself in the lowly role of the groom, but it seemed wisest just to mutter humbly "One does what one can."

  "That is terrible!" Shalial said. "I am glad that you managed to escape from the chain gang. But I do think that you should not linger longer around these holy precincts. You are sure to be discovered, and that could only bring trouble."

  The chapel was all visible now, and dawn was imminent. I wished our young priestess were a little easier to convince.

  "Milady," Thorian rumbled, "our fates are insignificant compared to the terrible intrigue that we have stumbled upon tonight, here in the temple. Tomorrow evening the venerable High Priestess Squicalm will be transported to the House of the Goddess to summon Immortal Balor."

  "About time, too!"

  "Perhaps. But we have certain knowledge that High Priest Nagiak does not expect the god to respond and has thus laid plans to effect a deception. The old woman will be secretly removed before dawn. You are to be substituted in her place and represented to the people as Squicalm rejuvenated. Your father is privy to this plot, and a willing accessory. Worse yet, the role of Balor will be assigned to one Gramian Fotius, grandson of War Lord Arksis. The man is a monster and a halfwit. You will be required to be consort to that brute, and I assure you that he will be worse than any of the four potential husbands your father named, or even all four of them together. This is the fate from which we seek to save you now."

  Shalial clapped her hands, smiling happily. "That is the most expressive monosyllable I have heard in weeks!"

  Thorian spun around on his knees to face the altar. "Mighty Sztatch, God of War, witness my oath. If I lie or have lied to this woman, may my sword fall from my hand when next I draw it in anger, may my bowels run in terror, and may I die like a cur disgraced. So be it."

  He touched his face to the floor, then swung back to the girl. "I do not attest to one word of the various rigmaroles that my companion has babbled to you, but I swear on my honor as a warrior that I have spoken true."

  The color had drained from her face. "You talk of sacrilege! The high priest?"

  "Nagiak is the chief conspirator." Thorian was doing so well that I decided to stay out of the conversation. He was an apt pupil.

  Shalial glanced nervously at the goddess by the altar. "My father? But my father is a pious man! Oh, he is a hard trader in business dealings, I grant you, but that is business. He honors the gods. He brought us up—my brother and me—to honor them, also." She turned back to Thorian, but the rising appeal in her voice sounded more as if she sought to convince herself than him. "He gives generously to the temple!"

  "I am sure he does, milady."

  "My brother is very devout! And I … I would not be here if I did not wish to serve the Great Mother. My decision tonight was not arrived at on the spur of the moment! I have thought about taking the veil ever since … well, for some time. The conversation with my father may have hastened matters along, but he did not force me!"

  "I am sure that the high priest believes in the gods, also," Thorian said, and his deep voice held a strangely gentle note, as a statue of Fairest Ashfer may be carved from adamantine rock. "I did not say he did not, nor that your father does not. But belief in the gods is not quite the same as believing that a certain miracle will happen to order."

  The child was shattered. She stared at Thorian aghast. "You, too? You think Balor will not come?"

  He shook his head.

  "But the Vorkans?"

  "They are men and can be killed by men. Not only do I not expect Balor to come in the flesh, but I doubt if Balor has ever come in the flesh, even in ancient times. Belief in Balor may be sufficient in itself."

  She licked her lips. "What can we do?" she asked hoarsely.

  "Omar and I must leave at once, or we shall die and achieve nothing. You should come with us. Your absence may not stop them for long, but at least you will not be damned in their vile machinations."

  "Go where? Where could I hide?"

  "Where indeed, milady? We are strangers here, and know no one. You must have friends."

  Dumb with horror, she shook her head.

  "Your father thinks you have a, er, romantic association."

  She flushed—angry and heartbreakingly vulnerable. "A lover, you mean? He is mistaken. I have no lover. And I know of no one who could or would hide me … neither from my father nor from the temple. I doubt if anyone in the city would do so."

  The final part of that was probably true, but she was still lying about the lover. Whoever he was, I decided, he must be very prominent, and very married.

  Thorian raked both hands through his hair. "Surely not everyone is so bespelled by the priesthood that they would refuse to listen to our story?"

  She hugged her arms around herself and seemed to shrink. "My brother …" She stared at the big man for a long moment, completely ignoring me. "But Jaxian will never oppose
my father! And if what you say is true, then this masquerade is necessary to give the city hope in the coming war?"

  She had seen to the heart of the matter very quickly.

  "I fear that is so. If you think that way, then your duty may be to cooperate with them—but you had best consult your soul and your goddess."

  Shalial wrung her hands. "And you had best go."

  Thorian rose to his great height and looked down sorrowfully at her. "I deplore this evil. May the gods have pity on you."

  She stared at his ankles. "And on you."

  "Come, Omar," he said sternly. The sky was starting to turn blue.

  For once, I could think of nothing to say.

  I rose and followed Thorian around the statue of Balor and out through the secret door.

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  16: The Coming of Rosh

  Thorian swung the ornamental panel closed. It shut with a click , leaving us in darkness.

  I heard fumbling sounds; flint sparked, tinder flared into life. He lit the candle in a small horn lantern. I peered around the hidden chamber, seeing a couch and chairs and several mysterious chests. Moldy scrolls were piled in one corner, mildewed rags in another. The air had a rancid, unused smell to it.

  "This place stinks," I said. "I scent some ancient evil awakening, an ancestral conspiracy shuffling its coils as it rouses from centuries of slumber."

  "Just dust. I raised some dust when I came down." Thorian moved the lamp and pointed to a patch of mossy humus on the floor under the skylight. The marks of his landing were clear.

  "You took quite a risk," I said, "dropping into an unknown room in the dark."

  "It was better than listening to your maundering about the Gates of Rosh."

  "There was much truth in that tale—more than you perhaps believe."

  "There could not be less. I decided that this room must have access to the chapel, and the opening would be easier to find from this side. Now come here." He bore the lamp to the innermost corner. "See? A stair going up and a stair going down."