“Thank you, Lord.”
“Think nothing of it. Good work is to be rewarded. Failure is—well, why don’t you and this fine young gentleman here next to you ride out and bring back your hapless former associate?” At a gesture from their master, the two riders turned their mounts and galloped off in the direction of the outer gate.
Peregriff was uncertain. “Lord, he is not dead?”
“Of course not. What do you think of me, Peregriff? He had to be punished, and of course he is dismissed from the troop, but I would not kill someone simply because they proved unable to live up to the standards set for the guard. Besides, the man has a wife and infant. Having only the standards of the lower classes to aspire to, they have done nothing wrong. Therefore I will not deprive them of this man’s company, however graceless it may be.”
Walking back to the front of the troop, he eyed them from beneath his helmet for a long moment. Hands on hips, he addressed them prior to departing.
“You are a credit to your countrymen and to all of EhlLarimar! I am proud to call you members of my personal household, and am confident that should the time ever come that it is necessary to place my life in your hands, then it will be in the finest care available anywhere in the world. I salute you!” Raising one mailed hand, he held it, palm outward, toward them.
Lances rose, the small gold and blue pennants secured just below where blade met shaft dancing in the slight breeze that always blew from the mountain heights down toward the sea. Thus dismissed, they broke ranks and prepared to return to their barracks.
As Hymneth and his general were mounting the steps that led back into the inner castle, trailed by the snuffling, silent eromakadi, the two soldiers who had been dispatched to bring back the deserter returned, leading the man’s mount between them. Across the saddle lay an oddly slack body. Its legs and arms were twitching, as was its neck, but it was as if they were no longer connected to one another. The man was beyond screaming now, reduced to a piteous sobbing that shook the spirits of all within and without the castle who happened to overhear it.
Dismounting, the pair of soldiers relieved the other horse of its burden. The man screamed anew when they pulled him off the saddle. He could no longer sit on his horse, or anywhere else. As he could not stand, he had to be carried off by his former comrades in arms. Since he had lost weight they were able to move him without much effort, though they had to be careful of his middle. It sagged flaccidly, chest and stomach sinking toward the ground as if that part of him were melting in the sun.
Hymneth paused long enough to watch the unfortunate being carried out of sight. “I suspected he was spineless when I first set eyes on him. Now he is for sure.” Turning away, he led his second in command back into the castle. The inspection had made him hungry.
They ate together. Not in the formal dining room, but out on one of the second-floor terraces that overlooked the city and the sea. If there was anywhere else on earth that could boast of weather as serene and tranquil as that of Ehl-Larimar, Hymneth had not heard of it. Peregriff agreed; it was another fine day.
“You must be pleased, Lord, to know that you are so well protected. It must help you to sleep well at night.” Before imbibing, the general considered the white wine in the superb fluted glass set before him, savoring the bouquet while admiring the color.
“The guard is a window dressing, Peregriff. Stalwart men and women in shiny uniforms to awe the people. I have never relied on them to protect me.”
The general looked surprised. “But Lord, you said—”
“I said what I did for their benefit. It’s hard to motivate those who serve if you tell them that ultimately even the potential sacrifice of their lives means nothing.” Enjoying the sun that struck his face through the helmet, he gazed out across his realm, at ease if not content. “Oh, they are fine for making minor arrests and for dealing with undistinguished miscreants like that deserter or ordinary assassins. But anyone or anything powerful enough to seriously threaten me would toss them aside like straw.” He sipped at his own drink. “Still, they look fine on parade.”
The general considered carefully before commenting. “So you still feel that the Worm’s warning was inaccurate, and that those whose coming he predicted will not reach
Ehl-Larimar? Or is it that you do not believe the necromantic powers it spoke of are strong enough to pose a threat?”
“Pose a threat? There is no threat, Peregriff. It doesn’t matter if the Worm’s prophecy proves to be correct or not.” He gestured diffidently. “You may pass the order to the navy to relax their alert. The household guard may stand down, and the instructions that were given to the border patrols to be on the alert for any unusual group of travelers seeking to enter the country are to be withdrawn.”
Despite his master’s mellow, even exuberant mood, the general was not reassured. “Is that wise, Lord? Maintaining a heightened military status does not require a great deal in the way of additional effort or expenditure. If it will ensure your safety …”
Hymneth waved him off. “I’m telling you, Peregriff: It doesn’t matter. If these individuals exist, and if they manage to reach and cross the border, and if one of them happens to be a sorcerer of some small skill, it does not matter. Even if they succeed in reaching the castle there is no need for concern.” Setting his wine aside and leaning across the small feast that had been provided for the midday meal, he lowered his voice in what the shocked general could only interpret as an intimate manner.
“There is no longer any reason to worry about such matters, Peregriff. Everything is well in hand. More so than you can imagine. Things have changed. Let them come to the castle. I am curious to meet those who would suffer such hardships and travel so far on behalf of the stiff and self-important aristocracy of far Laconda.” Sounding as satisfied as the general had ever heard him, the lord of Ehl-Larimar sat back in his chair and did a most remarkable thing: He put his long legs up on the banister and crossed them contentedly. Rising from the porch, the eromakadi hovered above his feet, shading them from the sun.
To Peregriff’s way of thinking, only one explanation seemed possible. “You have made some unique preparation in expectation of their possible arrival, Lord. Groundwork that you feel sure will counter anything they can do, no matter how unexpected or powerful.”
“Something like that.” More than anything, the ruler of Ehl-Larimar sounded amused. Peregriff was at a loss to know how to proceed.
“You want no special measures carried out, no extra guards posted either in the city, here at the fortress, nor even in your private quarters?”
“Peregriff, calm yourself. Should anything untoward occur, and it will not, no blame will accrue to you. I know perfectly well what I am doing. If the augury of the Worm turns out to be true, no harm can befall me. If it turns out to be false, no harm can befall anyone else. I await with anticipation the resolution of this conundrum that has so bedeviled my thoughts for far too long. You will see.” He sipped from his glass. “Life will continue not as before, but better than ever. You have my word on it.” He extended the chalice.
Automatically, the general picked up his and touched it to that of his master. In the placid light of midday their glasses clinked musically. Even as he swallowed the wood-tinged blood of the grape, Peregriff wondered what it was that he was toasting.
He was overlooking something, he knew. Priding himself as he did on his thorough knowledge of everything that went on both in the castle and in government, the omission was maddening. It was good that Hymneth seemed content, but the general knew all too well how rapidly and radically his master’s moods could change. That insight had kept him alive and prospering far beyond the time of uncounted colleagues in the service of the Possessed who had long since fallen by the wayside.
But what could it be? As regularly as Hymneth consorted with the powers of darkness, it might involve some malevolent spell of unimaginable power. Peregriff knew that the baleful green vapor that had crippled the
errant soldier was as nothing compared to the malign energies his master could muster if the circumstances demanded it. He had seen him do things in the privacy of his chambers that would have left lesser men huddled mewling on the floor, their eyes fastened to carpet or cold stone, their bodies curled into tight fetal positions.
He dared not probe. If and when the time came, Hymneth would reveal all to him. Peregriff knew the master did not trust him. That was to be expected. One in a position of absolute power could not afford to trust anyone. It was one way in which absolute power was maintained. But the ruler of Ehl-Larimar would occasionally confide in him. Their relationship was based on mutual respect for each other’s abilities. That, and Peregriff’s blood oath to support his master in everything he did.
It had been a good life and, if Hymneth was to be believed, one that the general could look forward to for many years to come. Had not the Possessed, through means of sorcery most profound, given him back the arm he had lost at the battle of Cercropai? He sat a little straighter in his chair. All was well in the kingdom, the nuncupative oozings of the Worm notwithstanding. Hymneth’s confidence was reassuring.
Though he had not met and knew nothing of them, Peregriff found himself beginning to feel sorry for the unknown, unenlightened interlopers whose advent the Worm had foretold.
XV
Ehomba halted before the stark yet beautiful panorama. They had been walking for many days without a change of terrain, and it was unreasonable to think that it would not eventually give way to a different landscape. It was just that he had not expected the shift to be so abrupt, or so harsh.
“By Gowancare’s jennies.” A somber-voiced Simna stood next to him, contemplating the identical vista. “Surely we’re not going to have to cross that?”
“I am afraid we must.” As usual, the herdsman’s voice betrayed no tightness, no unusual emotion. Raising an arm, he used the point of his spear to indicate the far horizon. “See those distant peaks? If all we have been told is true, those should be the outermost ramparts of the Curridgian Range. Beyond lies Ehl-Larimar. Once we cross over, we are near the end of my journey.”
“First we have to reach them,” Simna observed, noting the sun-blasted desolation that lay between. His water bag was full, but already it felt perilously inadequate against his back.
Before them lay a land of weathered promontories devoid of vegetation. Predominantly beige and white, some of the hills were shot through with streaks of carmine and yellow. Where intermittent flash floods had carved more deeply into the eroded sandstone, layers of black and brown were visible. Stunted trees and battered brush huddled together in the deepest gullies, seeking protection from the unrelenting sun.
Beyond the hills and fronting the base of the mountains, the light gleamed brutally off a strip of perfectly flat whiteness. Ehomba recognized it from his deepest forays into the interior of Naumkib country.
“Salt pan,” he informed his companions. “There was once a lake at the foot of those peaks, but the water all dried up long, long ago. Now there is nothing, and because of the salt not even a weed can grow there. They are terrible places.” From his elevated vantage point on the edge of the grassy plateau he surveyed the land that had to be crossed. “So long as we have enough water, we should be able to cross the salt flat in two nights and a day.” He indicated the beckoning, snow-capped peaks. “We should find springs at the base of the mountains.”
“Should find.” Simna’s tone was flat. “And if we don’t?”
The tall herdsman looked down at him. “Then we will get very thirsty. We will have to find water somewhere because we will not be able to carry enough to make a return crossing. I do not know what sources might lie between here and the pan. If we can find any it will be a great help.”
Behind him, the black litah growled impatiently. “Naked veldt.” Padding past the two humans, he started down the loose, scree-laden slope. “We waste water standing here.”
As they descended from the ridge, the temperature rose perceptibly. Beneath their feet, the unstable surface made for poor walking. Except for the sure-footed cat, each of them slipped on more than one occasion. Conscious of the danger, however, no one suffered any injury. Everyone realized it would be an especially bad place to incur a twisted ankle or broken bone.
“This must remind you of home, Etjole.” Pebbles sliding and bouncing away from beneath his sandals, Simna picked his way carefully down the slope.
“Not really.” Ehomba used his spear to steady himself on the steeper portions of the descent. “It is true that the land of the Naumkib is dry, but there are many rivers that flow through it to the sea, and springs even along the beach that bring fresh water from distant mountains. The hills behind the village receive rain in the winter and heavy sea fog in the summer, so that there is almost always grass to be found somewhere. There are trees in the ravines and washes, and plenty of game.” Sweat coursing down his face from the exertion of the descent, he paused and nodded at the terrain that lay before them.
“The country of the Naumkib is dry, but much cooler than here until and unless one travels far to the east. This is land that has been tortured.”
They drank their fill and topped off their water bags from springs that bubbled from the base of the ridge. From there until they reached the mountains there was a real chance they would find no more water. The deepest gullies separating the low, rounded, multicolored hills held out the promise of moisture in their depths: The vegetation that grew there was proof enough of that. But it might well lie far below the surface, within reach of ancient roots but not desperate hands. They could not count on supplementing their supplies for many days.
“We’ll need to watch what we eat as well,” Simna commented as they headed off into the rolling, uneven terrain that lay ahead.
“Dry country often yields a surprising amount of food.” Ehomba maintained a steady pace, his face a picture of determination. “Plants that look dead sometimes provide unexpected nourishment, and where there are plants there is at least some game.” He nodded to his left. “We are lucky to have with us a game-catcher supreme.”
“I can only kill what’s there.” The litah acknowledged the compliment with a terse grunt.
“Hunkapa hunt too,” the hirsute hulk bringing up the rear added plaintively.
“Hoy, I’m sure you’re well skilled at sneaking up on small burrowing creatures,” Simna commented sarcastically. “No matter. We all need to be sharp of eye and alert of ear ‘til we’re through this hell, lest we overlook even one opportune meal.”
Ehomba’s dry-land lore and Ahlitah’s hunting prowess notwithstanding, they could not eat what they could not find. In the days that followed, no game of any size showed itself, and the nearest thing they found to a water hole was a damp depression in the sand between two hills. Digging exposed only more sand; moist, but not drinkable.
The herdsman did locate a colony of honey ants. Digging out the bulbous bodies of the storage workers, he showed his companions how to make use of them.
“Hold them up by their heads, like this,” he explained as he demonstrated, “and bite off the sugar-water-filled abdomen.” This he proceeded to do, flicking the useless head and thorax aside when he was through.
Simna swallowed uncomfortably. But after trying one of the bloated insects, he found the sensation in his mouth surprisingly agreeable. The taste of the taut, thumbnail-sized golden sphere was sweet and refreshing.
It would have taken a dozen such colonies to slake their thirst, but the supplement to their dwindling reserve was welcome, and the sugar gave a boost to their energy and spirits.
Both had waned considerably when Ehomba, following a gully that led slightly northwestward, stepped around a sandstone column and ran into the demon.
Though understandably startled, the unflappable herdsman quickly regained his composure. Bunching up behind him, his companions were less sanguine. For its part, the demon regarded them warily but without fear. After al
l, there was very little reason for a true demon to dread the living. Protected as they were by all manner of spells and enchantments, there was not much a mortal could inflict on their person in the way of bodily harm.
Realizing this full well, Simna pressed close to his tall friend. Knowing that his own weapons would be useless against such a profoundly base creature, the herdsman’s hand did not stray in the direction of his weapon. Swords and knives were no match for the hexes of the underworld. Fortunately, he was traveling in the company of one of the few people he had ever met who possessed the knowledge to ward off evil enchantments. Assuming, of course, that Ehomba had been lying to him all along about not being a wizard.
On the other hand, he decided as he edged out slightly from behind the herdsman’s shadow, the appearance of this particular demon, though its ancestry and origins were never in doubt, was not of a kind to inspire immediate and unremitting terror. Above its slick bald forehead it wore a wide-brimmed hat, battered and notched, with two holes cut out to allow its horns room to protrude. The arrangement had the added benefit of helping to keep the hat on the apparition’s head in a high wind. Needless to say, it was not perspiring.
In addition to the dusty hat, the creature wore long pants in the back of which a hole had been cut to allow the curling, pointed tail room to roam. Trouser legs were tucked into calf-high boots. Above the belt the hairy chest was partially covered by a checked vest of many pockets whose contents Simna decided he would prefer to remain in ignorance of. A red bandanna around its neck was decorated with an embroidered pattern of interlocked human figures writhing in torment. On its back it carried a huge pack secured with multiple straps of well-worn leather. Tied to the pack were a pick and two shovels, a shallow, broad-bottomed iron pan, and a tent and bedroll. The bloated, oversized load would have taxed the strength of Hunkapa Aub. Supernatural strength and stamina notwithstanding, it clearly taxed the endurance of the red-faced phantasm.
A Triumph of Souls Page 21
