It wasn’t until it was very close that he realized why. It was a large flat made of wooden planks, with big log bulkheads on both sides. The cable went through a long tube on the right side of the boat, keeping it in position but doing little else. The motive power, however, was rather startling.
The motive power for the huge skid was eight small forms on each side of the boat, all wearing harnesses that were attached by cables to the boat and all of whom were flying their hearts out. This was no mean feat for the sixteen of themthey were quite small, perhaps two or three feet tall. Obviously, Joe reflected, they had a lot more strength relative to their size than people.
The boat was not empty; a very heavy looking wagon loaded with something and pulled by four draft horses was on board, as well as a few individual horse and rider combinations.
The tiny fliers pulled the glorified raft right up onto the hard landing; then the forward pair dipped down to the ground and tied off their pulling cables to studs set in the ground.
The wagon lost no time comming off and casting away. Two of the riders did likewise, but the third approached the Company, waiting its turn to board.
“Good afternoon,” he said in a sonorous voice. “Might I inquire how far it is to the nearest inn up the road?”
Macore studied the rider. He was tall and gaunt, possibly of mixed human and elvish ancestry, with a gray goatee and wide set, reddish eyes. He wore a totally black riding outfit, with cape and broad brimmed black hat.
“About nine miles north,” the little thief told him. “What is the situation on the other side?”
The stranger paused to think. “The situation, sir, is unpleasant. All sorts of strangers flooding into Pothique’s river towns, looking very secretive. I fear the war is approaching.”
Macore nodded seriously. “I suspected as much. But what of inns along the river? We’ll need to stay over tonight.”
“Try the village ofJaghri a mile south of the landing,” the stranger suggested. ‘There should be reasonable rooms therebut watch your valuables and keep on guard.” He looked at the trail. “Well, I must be going. I don’t like to be on strange roads after dark.”
“I don’t blame you. Have a good journey, sir, and a successful one!”
“And you the same,” the stranger responded and rode off down the road.
Joe approached Macore with a quizzical look. “What was that all about?”
“Either he’s a spy for the Barony which I doubt, since he’s so incredibly obvious or he’s running scared. More likely scared. I think we take his advice and be on extra guard tonight and every day and night after.”
“Hey! You two! They’re waving us on!” Grogha called, and they turned and got on their mounts.
Dwarfed by the riders and the wagon, one of the fairies they hadn’t noticed until now stood on the deck, acting as loadmaster. He was a curious sight as they passed him and stopped where directed. He looked something like a tiny man about two feet high and very well proportioned, much like a Greek statue with a crop of purple hair between two overlarge pointed ears; from his back sprouted a set of transparent wings.Around his waist he wore a pair of leaves as a loincloth, and around his head was a garland of what looked like seaweed.
He both walked and flew flittered was the word that came to Marge’s mind from spot to spot, showing each of them where to leave their horses, apparently trying to balance the load. Still, the raft could take far more than five horses and riders, and it wasn’t much of a problem.
Once positioned, the fairy got a series of stakes that seemed to fit into holes in the deck and lock there and placed them so that all five horses could be tethered.
Then the fairy rose straight into the air and gave a high pitched whistle; the crew on each side of the boat rose with the paddles, kicked off to the boatswain’s chant, and got in unison. The boat began to move.
Once it was under way, the loadmaster fairy settled down, so that he hovered about Five feet off the deck, making him roughly equal in height to the humans, now dismounted and stretching once again. The tiny creature approached Joe, and there was no mistaking his intent, so the big man gestured back to Marge.
More of the precious silver pieces were eked out, more than for the troll bridge, but it wasn’t the same, somehow. Hearing and seeing the effort put into moving them and the craft across the broad expanse of water, they all felt that this money was well earned.
The crossing took about an hour and forty minutes, and the sun was almost behind the rounded granite domes to the west when they pulled up on the opposite shore and disembarked.
There were no signs of either direction or welcome, but they had sighted the lights of a small town just a bit downriver as they crossed, pretty much as the stranger had told them, and they headed there at a moderate pace.
Still, as the fairyboat pulled out once more for its last run of the day, they all felt a certain additional loneliness. The great river now lay as not only a physical but a mental barrier to the land they’d known, and they were heading into unknown realms with that water barrier at their backs. For the first time, all of them felt truly on their own.
The village of Jaghri was a ramshackle collection of wooden shacks and a warehouse like inn around a boat landing. The design was slapdash and primitive when compared with what they’d been used to, and the whole thing looked weathered.
Clearly it had seen better days.
The stableman was a little hunchback with the face of a prune and the disposition of sour milk. His round eyes were offset, so he looked as if his face were at an angle when it was not, and he drooled and spat with no regard for people or property.
Dacaro and Posti, however, assured the others that they’d be fine, even if they had to take care of themselves, and Dacaro suggested this time that the saddlebags be taken inside with the group and kept under close guard. He reminded Marge of the spell that would safeguard them.
The inn itself was a stinking waterfront dive. Where the past night’s roadhouse had been clean, modem, well kept, and not very crowded, this place was in every way an opposite. It was crowded and it stank.
Those inside were also a rough looking lot, and a minority was human. Even those who were human, though, didn’t look very friendly or too human themselves. All eyes were on the five as they entered, and there was a slight drop in the noise level, but it quickly rose back to normal.
Macore looked around, spotted a bartender, and went over to him. “You got any rooms to rent tonight?”
The barman, who. apparently had never bathed, gave a grin that revealed yellowish, rotten teeth and said, “Yeah, we got a couple upstairs and more in back. What d’ya need?”
Macore thought for a moment. He was about to suggest the same as the night before a quad for the men and a single for the lady but he decided that nobody had better sleep alone around here. “Two rooms,” he told the barman. “One for three, one for two.”
“Eight grains in advance,” the bartender grunted. “Pit toilet’s in the back.”
Macore nodded and counted out the money, which vanished even faster than the fairy had made the boat fare vanish. “Show me the rooms.”
The bartender gave an evil grin. “Rooms? You want rooms?
Sorry. Just rented the last two.”
The little man stared at the bartender for a moment. “I play no games and give few warnings,” he said matter of factly.
“Either you stop this game now and give us our rooms, or you are dead. I will count to five. If your life is worth eight grains, let me count down.”
The bartender laughed. “Who’s gonna do it? You, little squirt?”
The thief was swift, drawing his shortsword and leaping at one and the same time, pushing the bartender right in the face and landing on top of the bigger man, sword at his throat.
“Five,” Macore said icily and made a small cut on the man’s throat. Blood trickled.
There was dead silence in the room, and the other four, who had remained to one side, placed
their hands on their weapons.
“Upstairs, first two on the left,” the barman rasped. “Let me be now!”
“Not until you give us our change,” the little man responded, as cold as before. “Ten grains I have coming. Now!” The sword hand moved slightly once more.
“You bastard!” the barman snarled. “I only charged you eight!”
“That’s true. And I charged you ten. Shall I count to five again? Don’t worry. If we have a decent sleep and are unmolested, I might give you a big tip tomorrow. Perhaps ten grains’ worth. Understand?”
“You win.” The bartender sighed. “Let me up.”
Macore backed off with an athlete’s grace, sword still at the ready.
“I’m gonna have to reach under the counter here to get your money,” the bartender told him. “Just take it easy, friend.” He reached into a small compartment, brought out some coin, and took out a ten piece, putting it on the counter. “There. See?”
Macore nodded, picked up the piece with his free hand, and relaxed a moment.
“I’m beginning to feel useless around here,” Joe muttered.
Macore grinned, sheathed his sword, and turned back to them.
“MacoreF Houma yelled as the barman reached back under his counter and took out a menacing looking dagger. The little man dropped and rolled, pulling out his shortsword as he did so, and Joe brought his great sword from its sheath and leaped over the thief to the barman with a yell.
Taken off guard, the barman, who’d been ready to throw the dagger or plunge it into Macore’s back, instead tried to shield himself with it against Joe’s attack. Not really wanting to kill the man despite his manner, Joe ignored the dagger and brought the flat of the sword down on the barman’s head.
Sparks flew from the point of contact; as a startled Joe yelled, there was a sudden flash of smoke, heat, and light and the barman was gone.
The would be barbarian stood there, getting his breath, looking stunned at the spot where the barman had stood. “What the hell... ?”
Macore got to his feet and put his sword away once more. “He wasn’t human, Joe. He looked it sort of but he wasn’t.”
“You touched him with iron.”
Joe whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned... I never really killed anybody before.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, you probably still haven’t,” the thief responded sourly. “He was sure a nobody if there ever was one.” He looked around. The crowd had stopped to watch the show, but was now slowly returning to drinking and gaming once more. Nobody seemed the least upset at the fight, and particularly at the fate of the bartender.
Macore let out a breath. “I must be getting old. Houma, Joe, I owe you both one, that’s for sure.”
“That’s why we’re a Company,” the lanky Houma responded modestly. “You’d do the same for us.”
Macore gave a slight shrug, but did not otherwise reply.
Instead he said, “Well, let’s take our rooms at least see if there really are two vacancies upstairs.”
There were. They weren’t much the linen was stained and the whole place could have stood a fumigation, but it would have to do for the night. “Joe, you and Marge take the first room. The rest of us will take the second,” Macore said. “That way the numbers and experience are on one side, the power on the other. Good enough?”
They all nodded. Joe went over to the door and saw that it could be barred by a large board. There was a small window with just a piece of burlap for a curtain, but there was no balcony, and it was a good thirty feet to the ground. The room would do.
Marge looked at the door and the window thoughtfully.
Finally she said, “You know, the same security spell Dacaro taught me for the money would also work on the rooms, I think. But you’d be stuck here until we came and got you.”
“That might not be a bad idea, anyway,” Macore replied and looked at the other two. “Any objections?”
“Nope,” Grogha said. “Might help me actually get some sleep.”
“I’ll second that,” Houma added.
“It’s settled, then if you’re up to it,” Macore told her.
“But first let’s put the spell on the bag and go down and get something to eat. If anything this place serves can be eaten without eating us, that is.”
“Let’s just hope the cook isn’t related to the bartender,” Joe responded nervously.
Chapter XI
A Company Picnic
Energy for minor magicks is transformed/Torn the practitioner’s own energies.
- I, 346, 89(b)
Marge prepared once more to perform the spell on the saddlebag, after first removing a few coins for use and giving them to the other four. She was acutely aware of her powers and her lacks in the process. To work magic required three things an inborn sixth sense that was the ability to see the forces, the training to recognize and control what you could see, and the ability to understand and, if necessary, solve complex mathematical equations. For, of course, that was what all spells were equations involving the magical energies and forces. The more complex the spell, the more complex the math involved.
She certainly had the ability to see the forces, at least after Huspeth had finished with her. In fact, the witch had probably not given her the talent at all. She had the strong feeling that she had always been able to see and sense those forces but failed to recognize them for what they were. Huspeth, too, had shown her how to recognize those forces and spells; the meanings of colors and auras not just for people but for everything.
To work the forces was also simple for Marge, although she was aware that none of the others in the Company save Dacaro and possibly Macore could see what she could see.
But the equations were beyond her, at least for now. She had been good in literature, the arts, and social sciences like history.
Math had never been her big subject, not since she’d barely limped through high school algebra. Thus, she was dependent on Dacaro. Prevented by his equine form from shaping the forces, he yet knew from his training the necessary math and could pass it along. Neither was powerful individually; as a team, they were a complete minor sorcerer.
Most of the chants used in spells were mere devices, either to aid in concentration, as memory tricks to bring forth the equations, or simply to confuse onlookers. The actual practice was quite simple you just concentrated on the person, place, or thing you were working the spell upon, then moved your finger or hand and let the energy flow from you into the object itself.
This spell consisted of yellow lines, glowing yellow strings that looked like paint on air. She looked at the saddlebag, repeated the little mnemonic Dacaro had given her as a memory aid, then pointed at the bag with her finger and drew the yellow lines, as if with crayon or marker. When she had finished, the saddlebag looked normal to the rest of them, but to her it was covered with a complex child’s scribble of yellow lines. At least, it looked like a child’s scribble in actuality, it was an equation expressed that way. Anyone meddling with the saddlebag would find the results extremely unpleasant; anyone wanting it now would have to undo that yellow stringy mess exactly the opposite from the way she’d done it, with no slips.
Such a task would be child’s play for a sorcerer like Ruddygore or a powerful sorceress witch like Huspeth, but the spell was more than adequate for average men and fairies. In a sense, it was like a good burglar alarm system it wouldn’t keep out the competent pro, but it certainly discouraged the amateurs, who were ninety nine percent of any threat.
She rejoined the others, and they went downstairs. The same motley crew was still there and there was a plump, middleaged woman now behind the bar but the only notice taken of them was that folks tended to move away from them as they took a table. They had gained a measure of respect, if nothing else.
They were briskly attended to, though, by a small, sadfaced waiter who gave them no trouble and no extra words.
They had some problems finding a proper vegeta
rian dish for Marge the others’ repugnance to eating animal flesh had lasted only until the first roadhouse and when the food came, it was greasy, overcooked, and tasted like an unwashed stove, but it was filling and there wasn’t any more to be said. They talked little while eating, except about the quality of the food.
Afterward Marge excused herself to go out to the stable and see Dacaro. “I want to be sure of the spells,” she told them, and they agreed.
“Want me to come along?” Joe asked her. “You never know whom you’re going to meet.”
“If I can’t manage that much, I have no business being here,” she responded and left.
It was quite dark out and humid now. The smell of the river was rich in the air, but she had no trouble walking the block to the stables and finding the stableman. He was a little amazed that all she wanted was to sit on the horse, but he simply muttered about having seen everything in this business and left her.
Once she was upon the black stallion, rapport was instantaneous. “Anything wrong?”
“No,” she assured him, “but it’s not the world’s nicest inn.”
Quickly she told him about the evening’s exploits and the kind of spell she wanted.
Dacaro thought a moment. “I think it is time you received some instruction. Perhaps it will be a good way to while away the miles from here on out. You seem determined to practice the art.”
“Of necessity,” she responded, “although I admit it fascinates me. I know I’ll never be great at it, but it is something unusual that I can do.”
“Ruddygore explained to you the price of such dabblings?
The fact that you are a witch’s changeling?”
“Something like that. I’m not sure I understand it and I’m certainly not going to let it bother me.”
“The principle is simple. Only the masters of the art may create magical energies. All else must come from the practitioner. The more difficult spells can literally take a lot out of you, energy that must be replenished slowly. In your case, the replenishment is not of flesh and blood but of the nature of faerie. The more energy you expend send from yourselfthe more faerie will replace it. If you lost blood, your body would eventually replace it with new blood. But if you lose the plasma of magic, it must be replaced from magical sources. Your sources are attuned to faerie. If you continue, your entire body will eventually be so replaced. You will be of faerie.”
The River Of Dancing Gods Page 19
