by James Silke
Gath forced himself to turn away, then retreated across the clearing and through the boulders and shrubs to his hidden recess. There he picked up his axe and waterskin, and slung them on his back. He started down the crevice, but paused hearing a slight, vague sound. He edged back to see.
The girl was sitting up, stretching languidly in the warm firelight. She stood and put twigs and branches on the fire so it glowed brightly. She watched it for a moment, then glanced around at the shadows and sighed with defeat.
Gath uncorked his waterskin, drank.
The girl settled back, pulled her covers over her and sank into the shadows.
He corked his waterskin and strode off into the shadows. A long moment passed during which the black night gave up no sound and betrayed no movement. Then he reappeared wearing a scowl no natural force could have removed. He moved down through the boulders to a shadow under a shelf of rock. There he sat, folded his arms across his knees and waited.
Fourteen
SAVAGE LULLABY
The intruder did not arrive until the moon had gone and The Shades was roofed by a black star-spattered sky. It was the grey she-wolf tortured by the chiefs. The animal had limped from behind a boulder at the north edge of the clearing and stood just within the glow of the fire sniffing the air. The smoke, riding a low breeze, swirled around the tree and across the clearing to her dilated nostrils.
Head low, the she-wolf dragged forward with a halting limp. Her left foreleg, broken and gashed, was drawn up under her.
Sharn, who had joined Gath earlier and now lay beside him, lifted slightly as curiosity glowed in his yellow eyes.
The she-wolf halted short of the tree and again sniffed the air, her ears moving from side to side. Her last meal appeared to be a long way down her back trail. Her coat was filthy, and clots of fur were gone from her bloody neck. A three-pronged, scabbed trail ran across her back.
The animal started around the tree, saw the sleeping figure, and circled away, then approached the flames from the side opposite the girl’s feet. Settling low, she inched forward, flicking her foamy tongue at a greasy hot stone. The tip sizzled, snapped back inside her mouth. She tried this again with the same result, then a third time and came away with a hot fatty scrap of meat. She savaged the morsel hungrily as thick white foam showed on her gums, and pushed her muzzle forward for a second bite. Suddenly the sleeping girl shifted.
The she-wolf rose abruptly on three legs, snarled. Her mane bristled.
The girl’s eyes popped open, and she rolled up on all fours, her hands grasping for her stick. She jerked it up with its pointed end aimed at the beast, and planted the butt end against the heel of her right foot. The whites of her eyes were large enough to cover a bed.
Gath watched, chin on folded arms. Sharn waited.
Snarling, the she-wolf backed away from the fire. Her efforts made the blood drip from her left foreleg, and a bright red puddle formed on the ground below it.
The girl winced. “Oh nooo!” Her eyes moved from the blood to the she-wolf’s eyes, then over the battered, panting body. A maternal warmth showed in the girl’s eyes. Her voice held the same warmth.
“You poor thing. Let me feed you… please.” She squatted and a smile moved into her rose-tinted cheeks. “You might as well, you haven’t the strength to hurt me, you know.”
The animal drew back her lips, snarled.
The girl gently lowered her eyelids, drew the corners of her mouth into her cheeks. The she-wolf’s snarl slackened, and she lowered the stick.
In the nearby shadows, Gath’s head lifted off his arms.
Moving with a slow fluid motion, murmuring softly and rhythmically, almost chanting, the girl sat down and crossed her legs. From one of her pouches, she removed the breast of the roasted hen, tore off a chunk and held it up for the she-wolf to smell. Then, with maternal sternness, she said, “I’m only going to give you a little bite to start with. So you won’t make yourself sick. Do you understand?”
The wolfs head dipped lower. Her ears laid back, but she did not move.
The girl leaned forward extending the meat, cooing, “Don’t be afraid. It’s all right now. We’re getting to know each other.” She gently wagged the meat at the animal.
The wounded animal snarled, edged back, and blood spouted from her foreleg.
The girl, keeping her arm extended, lowered her shoulder to the ground, rolled over on her back and let the meat drop. She withdrew her arm, then waited, lying perfectly still.
A long time passed. Eventually the animal glanced around and advanced slightly.
Gath rose in place silently raising his spear to strike. Sharn, with his eyes tight and narrow to contain their astonishment, moved silently around to the left side of Gath. From there things appeared no more normal than they had on the right side.
The she-wolf advanced to within two feet, looked suspiciously from the meat to the girl three times, then snapped up the meat.
“Not so fast,” the girl whispered sternly. She tore off another piece. The animal looked at her hand from three sides, sniffed it, then snapped the meat off her palm, chewed and swallowed.
She fed the wolf the rest of the meat in this manner, and lay still as the she-wolf licked her hand clean. The animal sniffed the girl’s arm and hair, then her ear and nose, and the girl returned these courtesies of the wild, sniffed the she-wolf’s muzzle, touched the animal’s nose with her own nose. The animal licked her eye then stepped back, whimpered slightly.
The girl sat up slowly, took more chicken from her pouch and fed the wolf from a sitting position, face-to-face. Intermittently she offered the animal water from her waterskin. Before long, the wolf was chewing and swallowing at a reasonable pace and she was petting it at will.
Gath had watched with the corner of one eye, as if it were unsafe, or unholy, to watch with both. Now he kept one eye averted as he and Sharn crept down to a dark shadow at the base of a boulder not seven strides from the thorn tree.
When the she-wolf finished feeding and lay docilely beside her, the girl drew her knife and held the animal’s broken leg in her left hand. She trimmed the bloody fur away, doused the wounds with water, and gently licked the wounds until they reopened and bled cleanly. She then massaged the bones until they were loose and pliable within the body of the foreleg. As she did all this, she continued to murmur softly.
She tore lengths of cloth from the hem of her tunic, and broke two straight sticks off the tree. They were slightly longer than the broken portion of the leg. She removed a tiny jar from her shoulder pouch, and poured its pastelike contents over the open wounds. Then, with a sudden, precise jerk, she pulled on the foreleg, reset the bones. The she-wolf shrieked and started to bolt upright. The girl, petting her, held her down. She bound the medicated wounds with cloth, then positioned the sticks as splints and tied them to the foreleg. The animal tried to get up, but she gently pressed her down whispering, “Not yet.”
For a long time she leaned over the wolf, kissing the animal repeatedly about her whiskered face and whispering into her ear.
Suddenly the animal bolted upright, and the girl sat back smiling with warm pleasure. The she-wolf tottered off, stopped, sensing something, then trotted haltingly off into the night.
The girl watched the animal until it was gone. Humming to herself, she put her things away and stirred the fire to life. She sat down, drawing her covers around her, then stared dreamily into the fire.
The distant bay of a wolf rode through the night’s silence. It was strange and beautiful as it mixed with the wind’s song in the trees. The girl lay down contentedly. A moment later the savage lullaby had rocked her to sleep.
In the concealment of the nearby rocks, Sharn stared with a profound intensity at the sleeping girl. Beside him, Gath uncorked his waterskin, took a long drink, pouring some over his flushed face, then whispered, “Sorcery.”
Fifteen
A TOAST
The same star-spattered night sky which roofed T
he Shades also cast its faint light on a narrow trail through the cataracts miles to the east. There mounted soldiers moved north down the pass, an undulating blackness glittering metallically where starlight touched it.
A Kitzakk regiment. Filthy. Deadly. Nearing the end of a three-day march from Bahaara. It consisted of sixty-six men; two companies of light-horse Skull soldiers armed with crossbows and scimitars. Their faces were painted black to resemble skulls. They were raiders, not invaders, equipped to spread terror and take revenge.
Two commanders, mounted on heavy black stallions, led the regiment. Working soldiers. Metal clad. Cluttered with the totems of dead enemies. Wearing enough grime and sweat between them to fill a wine pitcher.
Two wagons followed the commanders. The first was lacquered black and had a cagelike carriage on which rode three hollow-cheeked, black-robed guards of the Temple of Dreams. The second was a supply wagon heaped with spare weapons, saddles, and food.
The first dim light of day tinted the night sky as the raiders reached the bend in the trail where their two scouts waited for them. Up ahead, still a half-day’s march away, the regiment could see the gorge which formed the natural border between the cataracts and the forest basin beyond.
The commanders dismounted, strode to the edge of the road and looked down at a length of the gorge where three natural bridges of earth and stone crossed it. The bridges were partially closed off by unfinished gates. Beyond the gates a village sprawled over a dirt hill, Weaver at Three Bridge Crossing.
The commanders’ names were Trang and Chornbott. They were experienced raiders, champions of the Kitzakk Horde. Trang was short and thick, with a jaw big enough to eat table legs. He wore battered pieces of armor and a red helmet with heavy steel bars caging his face. An axe rode on his back; it was big enough to be his brother. Chornbott was a head-and-a-half taller, encased in a suit of polished steel chain mail, and arrogantly bareheaded. He carried a sheathed sword in his right hand; it was as tall as Trang.
The two men studied the village, then returned to the lacquered black wagon. Two temple guards opened its side door and the commanders bowed to the shadowed opening.
A small, rounded man daintily emerged from a shadowy heap of red and orange pillows within the cagelike carriage, descended three iron steps to the ground and stretched without removing his arms from his garments. He wore a black robe over an orchid tunic with an allover pattern of tiny black and yellow butterflies. A red skullcap with long, pendulous earflaps covered his round head. He had a narrow neck, soft-boiled eyes, the milky flesh of the albino and pink baby lips. As the two commanders waited with the confidence of tombstones, he bowed with a servility that could only be matched by a throw rug.
The commanders shifted with embarrassment and uncertainty. They were obviously unaccustomed to being treated with such formal courtesy by a man who was their superior, the second highest ranking Kitzakk in the Desert Territory.
The man they faced knew this and privately enjoyed their discomfort. This was Dang-Ling, a high priest of the Butterfly Goddess’ Temple of Dreams and the secret servant of the Master of Darkness.
The high priest sauntered to the edge of the road and looked down at Weaver. When he spoke it was as if he were reading.
“The village is called Weaver. It holds approximately five hundred residents, among which are between one hundred-and-twenty and one hundred-and-forty able-bodied warriors. No more.” He turned to the two commanders. “Your regiment will steal its nine most beautiful maidens from the temple and burn the village to the ground. You two will kill this annoying Barbarian who is so partial to black.”
The commanders bowed low. When they looked up, Dang-Ling said, “Please forgive me, but I must ask you to remove your clothing.” His tone was soft, considerate, nevertheless commanding.
The two champions shed their metal and undergarments, stood expectantly in front of the high priest. Their bodies were sun dark, mostly callouses, with large patches of white scar tissue grown over old dirty wounds.
He removed a red earthenware jar carved in the shape of a butterfly from his robes. He uncorked it, extended it to the two commanders. “Apply it liberally. It is a very old and potent formula whose magical powers are assured. It is made from his own living totems. You will not even have to look for this dark Barbarian. He will find you.”
Trang and Chornbott dipped their fingers into the jar, came away with a grimy, pungent, green ointment, and eagerly applied it to their genitals. It went on easily. The fingernail clippings and pubic hairs which Cobra had stolen from Gath of Baal had been ground to a fine pulp along with his spittle and other ingredients. When they finished, the two large men whispered prayers to the Butterfly Goddess, and got dressed.
An amphora of temple wine called Bwong was then removed from the supply wagon and served by the temple guards. When the cups or helmets of the regiment were filled, all present raised their vessels, gave the required toast, then downed the Bwong in one gulp. They drank to murder.
Sixteen
SPIDER’S WEB
The morning sun splashed over Calling Rock, flowed through its crevices and gullies, and spilled across the flat clearing at the crest to anoint Robin’s sleeping, tousled head with a cool gold light. She was not alone. A yellow-eyed, ten-foot python dangled out of the thorn tree. It was awake. Its tongue flickered inches from her face. She stirred, brushed a hand sleepily across her eyes and blinked at the warm touch of sunshine. She rolled up on an elbow. The python spread its jaws with a rasping hiss that did not exactly say good morning, and, to let her know what kind of day it was going to be, displayed glistening rows of sharp teeth and two cold, black eyes set in a green scaled head. Robin screamed.
The python gathered to strike, and the leaf-shaped blade of a spear drove into its skull with a sharp crack, nailed it to the trunk of the tree.
The body of the huge reptile dropped out of the tree and coiled violently around the offending spear, collapsed when the spear was pulled out. Its tangled weight hit Robin’s legs as she scrambled away and knocked her flat. She screamed again, kicking at the writhing, thrashing serpent, finally rolled free and sat up on her haunches still screaming.
A shadow moved over her body. She stopped, looked up, screamed again, and buried her face under arms and elbows.
A huge, dark Barbarian stood over her. The bloody, leaf-shaped spear dangled from his right hand. His face was flushed. His dark eyes gleamed intently under the threatening bulk of his forehead. His helmet, tied to his belt, bulged at his hip like an unnatural growth. His armor, glistening on his chest, rose and fell ominously. The movement made the black fur under the armor appear to be growing from his oak-brown flesh.
Robin peeked from under an elbow and saw an arm reach for her. Its hand looked big enough to send to school. She gasped and scrambled back.
He put a foot on the hem of her tunic and brought her to a sudden stop. Frantically, she hid behind her arms again as the hand advanced like a siege weapon. It hesitated, then parted her arms until it found her face. She watched its thumb hover in front of her mouth, a breath away from the trembling curve of her lower lip. Then it gently stroked the lip.
Paralyzed, she closed her eyes, felt the thumb work her lip, then opened her eyes to see the veins cording along a thick metal-clad arm, moving each nick and hair, and surging with the taut muscles of his shoulder and thick neck. Her lids fluttered, then her head tilted back, and she looked into his shadowed face. Dark stubble of beard. Bright hard white teeth. Eyes that hid under a shaggy brow. Grey animal eyes of the predator ruled by the laws of claw and fang, yet black wounds opening on to a haunted past, to the child long buried within. Eyes proud of their mysteries. Eyes that had hidden his feelings too well and long, but which could not hide from her.
A rush of empathy pulsed through her, bringing color to her cheeks. Her smile was not far behind.
He touched her curved cheek, then studied her smile so intently it seemed he thought it had a life of its own
.
Boldly she asked, “Are… are you Gath of Baal?”
His dark brow lifted as if he had never heard his name before.
She tried again. “You are?”
His eyes moved to her eyes and quickly withdrew. He turned to the tree, kicked the shuddering python aside, picked up her things and handed them to her. She took her belt with its dangling pouches, slid her knife into its sheath. She tied her cloak and blanket into a bundle and hung it on the end of her walking stick. She did all this with her eyes on Gath and speaking rapidly, in short breaths.
“I… I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to scream. I should have thanked you… and I do thank you. You saved my life.”
“Go,” he said quietly. “You should not be here.”
She nodded, pleaded, “But… if you are… Gath of Baal, I must talk to you.”
He took hold of her elbow, guided her toward the trail at the north rim.
“Go! You do not belong here.”
With a willful strength she yanked free and confronted him bravely. “I will not go! Not yet! I have a message.”
“I have no use for messages,” he said curtly and pushed her forward.
She staggered, then stood her ground. “It’s important! Brown John sent me.”
“Go!”
“But I can’t.” Tears choked her words. “Not until… oh, please listen.”
Tears welled in her eyes; the corners of his mouth drew down hard. Gath’s eyes lost all expression, and he started back toward the eastern rim leaving her behind. She stared in disbelief, watched him stride casually past a massive grey timber wolf that was staring at her as if she were a disobedient pup. The wolf barked. Robin gasped, and hollered at the man.
