by Dave Duncan
In Zark, the caliph learned of the Impire’s troop movements and hastened his preparations for invasion.
In far—off Krasnegar the unusually bitter winter drew to a close. The royal council ruled in the queen’s absence under the efficient chairmanship of the deputy she had appointed before her mysterious departure. His authority was often challenged, but he remained undeposed because the council could never agree on a replacement. In one of the few actions it did agree on, it ordered the rack—boned herds driven across the causeway to the hills of the mainland, the traditional first rite of spring.
The people of that barren little land would have been very surprised to know that their king was fighting his way through the jungles of the Mosweeps in the company of a jotunn and two trolls.
The torrent of refugees that poured into Hub had released a second flood, heading east and south. Racing in advance of them on the road to Qoble went a one—horse phaeton, bearing a man, a woman, and a child. After they had been traveling for over a month, they arrived one night at an inconsequential hamlet called Maple, where the man pulled up in the middle of the only street and gestured to the inn signs displayed on either hand.
“We seem to have a choice of two,” he observed with a roguish smile. “The Imperial Crown, or the Daffodils.” And Eshiala, who may have become bolder during the past few weeks or perhaps merely tired of resisting the inevitable, blushed and announced, “I think I’d like to try the Daffodils.”
So it was in Maple that Ylo gained his reward and Eshiala learned how an expert made love. It was a very prolonged affair, at times gentle, at times extremely energetic. It began with her toes, and involved a lot of laughter and eventually tears that were not tears of sorrow, and it lasted until dawn.
By coincidence or divine irony, it was during that same night of rapture that a solitary rider thundered through Maple without stopping, passing below the chamber window. He thus drew ahead of his quarry. He had always known that this absurdity might befall his solitary pursuit, but he had heard Ylo speak of a warmer climate and guessed that he planned to return to Qoble. There were very few passes into Qoble, and they were all guarded by detachments of the XIIth legion. Its officers would listen to Centurion Hardgraa; every man in the ranks knew Signifer Ylo.
In Qoble the child would be recaptured and the traitor who had abducted her would pay the penalty.
SIX
Westward look
1
The forest giant had toppled years ago, and its trunk was thickly encrusted by moss of an especially nasty green. Higher than Rap’s head, it lay across his path like a wall. “Path” was a misnomer, of course. There was no path. There was almost no light to see by, or solid ground to stand on, or space to squeeze between the branches and suckers and vines. The rain did stop sometimes, briefly, but such momentary droughts made no difference at the bottom of that sea of vegetation, where water dribbled and dripped continuously. He had been clawing his way through this nightmare for more weeks than he could bear to think about. Had there been any way to give up, he would have given up long ago. Even fauns were not that stubborn.
Thrugg had found handholds somewhere and swung his great form onto that fallen trunk—peering up, Rap could see his enormous feet and calves like flour sacks. The rest of him was hidden in leaves. Then he crouched down, coming into view with the usual spray of water. He bared teeth in a grin. ”Coming?”
He went naked and there was not a single mark on his doughy hide. Rap was swathed in garments of stout linen, yet he had almost no undamaged skin left between scars, scrapes, rashes, bruises, and insect bites. He had renewed his entire outfit from hat to boots just three nights ago, and put a preservation spell on it, but already it was rotting and falling apart.
The surprise was not that the Impire had never conquered the Mosweeps; the surprise was that it had ever wanted to.
Stop! He was veering perilously close to an attack of self-pity, and he seemed to be doing that far too often recently. Go on, or sit down and die—those were the choices. Or use sorcery and be snapped up by Zinixo, of course, which would certainly be a worse ordeal than this. Fauns did not sit down and die! Nor did jotnar.
Thrugg’s big paw was waiting. Rap grabbed it with both hands and felt a familiar humiliation as the young giant yanked him effortlessly skyward. A rush of wet leaves in his face, and he was standing at the troll’s side, feeling childlike and helpless.
Thrugg pushed aside vegetation and peered at him with an expression of bestial ferocity that would have given a professional torturer nightmares for months. Rap could identify it now as mild concern, just as he had learned to make out the slurred mumble of trolls’ speech—the words were all in there, if you listened carefully enough.
“Not long now. You manage?”
Was his frailty so obvious? “Sure I can manage! Race you to the next castle . . . if you’ll just tell me where it is.” Thrugg chuckled, a deep rumbling noise inside the barrel of his chest. He thumped a friendly hand on Rap’s shoulder in approval. The moss crumbled under Rap’s feet, and he shot down into a soggy, crumbling paste, coming to rest with his arms on the green carpet and the troll’s horny toes in front of his face. Oh, Gods! Again he felt black blankets of despair envelop him. What was the use?
“Not down there!” Thrugg said.
Rap summoned his resources. Fight on! There would be humor in this situation somewhere, if he could find it. “I think you’re cheating!” he moaned. “Do troll rules let you nail your opponent into the ground?”
“Sure. Now I stamp on your head.”
“It’s not fair, you know! You must outweigh me three to one, and I’m the one who falls through?”
“Standing with feet wrong way.”
“Well, it is restful, like a warm bath.”
“That’s good! Dead trees usually full of many-legs. No bites? Stings?”
At once Rap’s skin began to crawl with a million tiny feet, real or imaginary. “Get me out of here!” he yelled, close to panic.
Thrugg lifted him out and jumped, still holding him like a child. They came down on the far side of the tree with a splash, knee-deep in mud. The brief stay in the rotted wood had been long enough for Rap’s clothes to be invaded by the many-legs, and several no-legs also. With howls, he began stripping them off.
“Use sorcery?” the troll asked urgently. He hated to see anyone else suffer, although he had endured months of slavery at Casfrel rather than wield his power against another human being.
“No!” Rap said. The Covin seemed to have abandoned its search, but the fugitives had agreed to continue their avoidance of magic in the open, and he would not be the first to give in. He clawed at something squishy feeding on his thigh. “Ugh!”
“Next castle’s shielded.”
“Wonderful! How’d you know that?”
“Been there before. Almost there now.” How Thrugg found his way through this impenetrable maze was a complete mystery. Rap thought he did it by smell. He could navigate just as well in the dark during a thunderstorm. He never lost his sense of direction, and he invariably found some sort of shelter for the night—not that he needed shelter, but the visitors did. He did not use sorcery, for Rap would have detected that.
“Then I’ll clean up there. Lead the way.” Leaving his infested clothes where they were, Rap set off in only his boots and a bare minimum tied around his middle. When he wore clothes, he sweated to death in the steamy heat. When he didn’t, he was stung and scratched unbearably. He could never decide which was worse. But if there was shielding ahead, then he could put everything right in a few minutes. New clothes, new skin. Cold beer!
Today they had crossed a single ridge, covering less than a league, and Witch Grunth’s home was a long way off yet. Insidious voices whispered that this expedition was a terrible mistake. The moon was past the full again, so Rap had been floundering around in the mountains for more than two months. He had no idea what was happening outside in the real world. He had no way n
ow to communicate with Shandie or the warlock. For all he knew they might both have been captured, leaving him to fight a hopeless single-handed battle against the Covin. At the present rate he was going to die of old age before he achieved anything at all.
Krasnegar itself might no longer exist. He could not bear to think of Inos and the children. In the letter he had sent with Shandie, he had urged Inos to leave and take refuge at Kinvale. She might have sent the kids away, but he doubted she would have abandoned her kingdom. She took her royal responsibilities more seriously than anything else in her life, and at times she could be as stubborn as a faun.
Would he ever see her again? More likely he would die of old age in this Evil-begotten morass. What had ever possessed him to come here? Lith’rian would have been a far better bet than Grunth.
And always, that haunting half memory that whispered he had forgotten something important and was overlooking a winning move . . .
Thrugg had been right again, though. In a few minutes they heard running water and the ground dipped steeply. Rare was the stream that had no castle on it. Trolls spent their lives home-making, building huge edifices of rock, almost always straddling running water. A cataract in every room seemed to be the most desired feature in domestic architecture, except possibly incompleteness. As soon as he saw his work nearly finished, a troll would wander away and start again somewhere else. A man’s gotta do something, Thrugg said, and what else was there to do in the Mosweeps? Most of the jungle was edible for trolls, so there was no need to farm. Once in a while they would run down a deer—usually just for sport, but rarely for a taste of meat. Wood and paper and cloth turned to mush in days. Fires would not burn. Heaving rocks around creatively was better than doing nothing.
Every stream bore abandoned castles, many so ancient that they were buried in jungle. A surprising number of them showed evidence of occult shielding. That abundance of shielding was the only encouraging thing Rap had discovered on this mad pilgrimage. It confirmed his theories about the best places to look for sorcery. For untold centuries, the gentle folk of Faerie had been exploited for words of power. The Nogids and the Mosweeps were barriers on the road home to the mainland. Many geniuses and adepts must have been shipwrecked, and words of power outlived their transitory owners. He had assumed that the trolls and anthropophagi would include more than their share of mages and sorcerers, and so far his guess seemed to be working out.
Gathering them together, even with Grunth’s help, would be another matter altogether. One lifetime would never be enough.
Somewhere just ahead, though, was another troll castle. Soon he would discover who lived in it, if anyone. Many trolls were completely solitary. Others lived in strange groupings—two or three men and one woman, or the other way around. Once or twice he had met bands of children living together with no evidence of adults to care for them. Little Norp had attached herself to one such band without even a word of farewell. Trolls were peaceable and could eat anything. They had no need for social organization.
Yet they had a culture, of a sort. He had not known of their singing and dancing before, but they existed. Although they were strange to him, he could appreciate them as art. Trolls made strangers welcome—indeed their hospitality toward other trolls was unlimited. They would share even their mates without jealousy. Rap had refused several offers in the last two months, always with as much tact as he could muster.
Darad had no such inhibitions. Even after exhausting days of scrambling through impenetrable vegetation, he could never resist challenging the men to wrestling matches. He never won, and he never learned. His activities with the women had perhaps been more successful, but he had suffered numerous broken bones in both sorts of encounter, despite his partners’ efforts not to hurt him. Had Thrugg not cured his injuries, Darad would have long since been left behind, a helpless cripple.
Darad and Urg were following, probably quite close, but the dense undergrowth blocked noise.
A glimpse of weepy gray sky showed through the trees ahead, and the noise of water grew louder. The day was far from over, but the promise of rest was too tempting to refuse. At this rate, Rap was going to be as old as Sagorn before he even met up with Witch Grunth.
His gloomy meditations were interrupted by a thunderous roar from Thrugg. Trees shuddered and cracked as the giant hurled himself forward and disappeared down a bank. Rap scrambled after, hearing more ferocious bellows, and then others in answer. He emerged from cover at the edge of a small pond. Thrugg and another man were rolling around in the center, roiling the water to spray, punching, roaring, and struggling as if bent on mutual murder. Such was the normal friendly greeting between male trolls. Fortunately, they were rarely so affectionate toward men of other races.
Beyond them stood a wall of gigantic rocks, with the stream cascading down from the front door. Venturing a peek with farsight, Rap established that the castle was indeed shielded against sorcery. That was welcome news, and so was the relative absence of moss on it. It must be very recent—and that suggested a sorcerer in the neighborhood.
Shortly thereafter, Rap was reclining at ease in a comfortable chair identical to his favorite chair in Krasnegar. Cold drinks stood on a table nearby. He was clean and garbed in loose cotton slacks. He had healed his scrapes and bruises, including the dislocated shoulder he had suffered in being introduced to Shaggi, his new host. Sorcery had a much greater appeal in the Mosweeps than it did anywhere else.
The room was troll size, a modest cathedral, although in shape it was more like a cave, with few level or vertical surfaces. It was dim and relatively cool. A waterfall cascaded down the rear wall to feed a series of pools crossing the floor to the entrance. Jungle was already clambering in through the windows. Apart from Rap’s innovations, there was no furniture.
Thrugg and Shaggi sprawled side by side on a rock ledge, growling and gabbling at each other incomprehensibly. They appeared to be old friends, for they laughed often, and jovially swung killer punches at each other. Shaggi was something of a mystery. If anything, he was even larger than Thrugg, and of about the same age. He was not, apparently, a sorcerer. Or else he was concealing the fact superbly.
Just when the mayhem seemed to be slowing down and Rap thought he might manage to enter the conversation, a shadow darkened the doorway. Urg came striding in, carrying Darad. He was delirious, thrashing and struggling vainly against her greater strength. Thrugg leaped up in alarm, and his image brightened in the ambience as he inspected the damage. Snakebite, Urg explained casually. A sorcerer of Thrugg’s power could heal anything short of death, and in moments the jotunn was sitting up and looking around with his usual ferocious grin. Rap organized another, very solid chair. But of course Darad would have to meet his host, and there would be more violence.
Rap could contain his impatience no longer. “Shaggi?” he demanded hastily. “Who put the shielding on this house?”
“Uh?” Shaggi scratched his head. “Shielding?”
Thrugg chuckled. “I did.” He was sitting on a rock by the stream, crunching on a thick tuber he had magicked up for himself.
Rap’s mood turned black again. “Oh.”
“He’s my brother.”
“Oh!” Well, that explained the joviality. “I was hoping maybe we’d met up with another sorcerer.”
“You did!” a new voice said. A monstrous old female came lumbering out of the shadows under the waterfall. Her hair was gray and tied behind her head in a ponytail, which was an odd affectation for a troll. She wore a loose cotton gown, which was even odder.
Thrugg leaped up and tried to embrace her. She swung a sideways punch that would have smashed any normal skull like an egg. It bowled the young giant right off his feet, and he flipped into the pool with a splash that soaked half the chamber.
“Idiot!” she snarled. “Why did you bring these vermin here?”
Wiping water from his face, Rap sprang to his feet. He had done it! All those weeks of torment in the horrible jungle had not
been wasted—he had found the woman he came to seek. He bowed low.
“Greetings, your Omnipotence!”
Grunth glared at him and then spat. “Go away!” she said. The ambience flared dangerously, with images of molten rocks. “Go away before I bum you to ashes.”
2
Shaggi bounded over the stream to Rap and enfolded him in a bone-creaking hug. “He is my guest!” he bellowed, apparently believing that his mother would be unable to damage Rap without hurting him at the same time—which was far from the case, of course.
Even before he had spoken, though, or Darad had stopped blinking his surprise, Thrugg spoke out in the much faster world of the ambience. In a stream of images almost instantaneous, he described Rap’s attempt to rescue the slaves at Casfrel. He explained how that had been an act of pure altruism, and a very dangerous one. His appreciation and gratitude were obvious—embarrassingly so. Rap himself had almost forgotten the incident, and thought nothing much of it anyway.
But it cooled the witch’s anger. She sat down on a convenient rock and scowled at him. “My thanks, then,” she said reluctantly. “But you are not welcome here.”
“I see that,” Rap muttered, still breathless from Shaggi’s embrace. ”Can we talk about it?”
The molten rocks glowed again briefly. “Talk. I’ll listen. ” Grunth turned her attention to Urg, holding out her arms in welcome. While the two hugged in the mundane world, Rap started to speak in the ambience. Thrugg introduced Darad, who was as far out of his depth as usual, and Shaggi went splashing out down the stream. He returned very shortly with a double armful of branches for supper. And while all this was going on, Rap was bringing Witch Grunth up to date on everything that had happened since she had made her brief appearance in the Rotunda. It was a real shock to realize six months had gone by since that fateful day the old imperor died. During those six months, the usurper had undoubtedly been consolidating his grip on the world. Time was slipping away.
