A Triumph of Souls

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I wonder why someone—or something—chose to put a town here, in the worst place imaginable?” Ehomba mused as they walked on. The buildings were moving slightly apart as the street widened. They were coming to some kind of central square or plaza.

  Simna’s retort was tense and edgy. “Maybe it’s a summer resort, where the residents can come to escape the heat of their customary surroundings. Who knows what monstrosities like these consider attractive in the way of climate or countryside?”

  “For one thing, we like it beautifully barren and destitute, visitor. To most of us this is splendid country.”

  Thus hailed, they halted. The figure that had spoken had paused in its stroll down the osseous promenade. It was a lizard, but while both Ehomba and Simna were familiar with the four-legged reptiles from their respective travels and homelands, neither man had ever encountered a lizard like the one they confronted now.

  Standing on its severely bowed hind legs, the reptile was a good three feet tall. It wore a military-style cap, maroon vest with gold stripes, long, tattered brown pants, and no shoes. Stretching another three feet behind it, a brown-and-green tail whipped nervously back and forth as it spoke. Completing the unexpected costume were a pair of pince-nez glasses that rode comfortably halfway down its snout.

  Inclining its head slightly downward so it could peer out over these at the visitors, the lizard tut-tutted softly. “I declare, you lot are the most peculiar collection I’ve seen in some time. If you don’t like it here, I suggest you move on.”

  “That is exactly what we are planning to do,” Ehomba responded politely. “Just as soon as we are able to top off our water supply.”

  “So it’s water you want, is it? In Skawpane.” The head bobbed rapidly up and down. “Interesting. We don’t get many calls for water here. Sulfur now, or antimony, or cinnabar; those the general store stocks in bulk. But water—your options are mighty restricted.” Slitted eyes blinked as they stared up the street. “So’s your time.”

  “Why?” In the face of danger, it was typical for Simna’s tone to turn belligerent. “Don’t the locals like company? Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m the town monitor. As for my fellow citizens, they’re an intemperate lot at best. Never know how the individual members of such a mixed bunch are likely to react in any given situation. There’s folks here who’d like to talk to you, some who might invite you in for a game of cards or bowls, but most would probably prefer just to tear you limb from limb.”

  “Hungry?” Hunkapa Aub asked.

  The lizard nodded. “Or just surly. Or wanting the exercise. Even established locals have to watch their step. The fiends among us are no respecters of residency. Skawpane’s a popular place among the damned and doomed.”

  “Which are you?” Hunkapa inquired innocently.

  “The downtrodden. In fact, things have been so bad hereabouts lately that I’m thinking of taking off for open country. You get tired of looking over your shoulder every minute. Trying to make a living in the midst of unrelenting demoniac anarchy takes a toll on one’s health.”

  Holding firmly to his spear, Ehomba watched as a pair of blue demons with four legs and long, warty snouts crossed the street in front of them. They were trailed by three magnificently ugly but well-dressed miniature versions of themselves. Much to their parents’ satisfaction, the young demons fought continuously among themselves. Darting in and among the impish offspring was a small, yapping bundle of thorns that had feet but no legs. Or head.

  “You said that our options were restricted. That implies that options exist. What are ours?”

  “For obtaining water?” The lizard turned, claws clattering on the bone sidewalk, and pointed. “The central plaza lies just ahead, on the other side of the memorial municipal ceremonial slaughterhouse. In the middle of the plaza is the town fountain. That’s where you’ll find your water.”

  “And no one will object to us filling our bags?”

  The reptile shrugged. “Your very presence here is an insult to all that is profane and unredeemed. Mortals don’t belong in Skawpane. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive. I would’ve thought by now that some enterprising perversion would have killed you, skinned you, and hung you out to cure in the sun. Or done so without killing you.” Cold reptilian eyes regarded them speculatively. “As I said, you’re an odd lot. You might get your water. Of course, after that you still have to make it safely out of town.” A scaly thumb gestured.

  “Remember: on past the slaughterhouse, middle of the central plaza. And good luck.”

  With that it resumed its stroll along the sidewalk and had not gone more than a couple of yards before something long, leprous, and scarlet shot out from within a shaded storefront to wrap snakelike several times around its middle. Hissing violently, the lizard was drawn back into the depths of the aperture. From within arose the sounds of violent and desperate conflict.

  The travelers did not linger to witness the outcome. Ehomba led them onward, away from the noise of fighting. Not only was it the safe thing to do, it was the accepted reaction. None of the other locals out walking the streets paid the slightest attention to the shrouded life-and-death struggle taking place nearby. They went about their business as if nothing untoward were taking place—which for Skawpane was perfectly true.

  Simna placed his feet carefully, doing his best to avoid stepping on the pale white maggots that infested the street slime and snapped hungrily at his ankles. They could not catch him, but there were certain places on the public avenue where it would clearly be unwise to loiter. Though everywhere awash in corruption and decay, some spots were perceptibly worse than others.

  “Hoy, I’ve seen too many tentacles since joining your company, Etjole.” The swordsman nodded back the way they had come. “That one was particularly long and vicious. Reminded me of our encounter with the Kraken, but at least in this case there was only one of them.”

  Ehomba kept his gaze alert as he unblinkingly scrutinized shadows and side passages. “Yes, but that was no tentacle, Simna. It was a tongue. And the storefront from which it emerged was not a place of business at all, but a mouth most carefully disguised. Little here is what it seems, and visitors such as ourselves can be sure of one thing only: the omnipresence of death.”

  “Hoy—thanks for that explanation, bruther. I feel so much better now.” Behind them, the black litah paused repeatedly to flick slime from its paws.

  “I am only pointing out what is true,” Ehomba countered.

  “Sometimes it’s better to keep what’s true to yourself.” The swordsman nodded forward. “Looks like more of the friendly citizenry has come out to greet us.”

  From the ominous, looming double door that sealed the end of the slaughterhouse, more than a dozen of Skawpane’s diverse inhabitants had emerged. They formed a line across the volcanic paving stones that marked the outskirts of the town plaza, blocking the only visible access to the center.

  From their attire and accoutrements Ehomba decided that all or most of them must work in that dismal, odiferous structure. Several wore long aprons encrusted with revolting dark stains. Their expressions were frightful, their posture dire. It was clear that they had no intention of stepping aside to let the travelers pass.

  Several stood more than ten feet tall and boasted multiple arms or boneless limbs. Others had three eyes, or no eyes at all. One of the creatures most nearly resembled the many-branched cacti that grew in isolated thickets back of the Naumkib’s grazing lands. Toxic pus oozed from each quill, and the drool that ran in a steady trickle from a central orifice dissolved whatever it came in contact with.

  All were armed. Not with weapons, but with the tools of their horrific, evil-smelling trade. Much in evidence were oversized skinning knives: long punctuation marks of metal, sharper than razors and blotchy with dried blood. The largest among the coterie of inhuman butchers fingered meat cleavers the size of small doors, weighty with malevolence. Standing in line, blocking progress, they
watched the approach of the diverse quartet of advancing mortals. While most sported no expression at all (and indeed, some had nothing to express with), a few wore macabre grins that were crescent moons of pure evil.

  Simna casually raised his sword. “Maybe we should go around; try entering the square from another part of town?”

  “What makes you think these wicked corruptions of all that lives and breathes would not be waiting for us there as well?” Keeping his voice down, Ehomba slipped his spear into its sling on his back. “Besides, I have a strong feeling that if we were to turn our backs on any of the inhabitants of this place, they would take that as a sign of unqualified weakness and fall upon us in a body. From the moment we entered into the boundaries of Skawpane I sensed that sooner or later we would have to defend, and prove, ourselves.” Reaching back over his shoulder, he drew forth the sword of etched sky metal. As always, it emitted an imperceptible hiss when drawn from its scabbard. “It seems it is to be sooner.”

  One of the biggest of the brutish butchers laughed hollowly at the sight of the two bright, slim weapons. Its impure tittering resonated through the soles of the travelers’ feet.

  “Puny mortal weapons will not serve here, little meat. We’re going to carve you up, dress you down, and pick our teeth with your bones!”

  Something that looked like it had been run over twenty times by a wagon laden with building stone weaved slowly back and forth on powerful, if unsteady, feet. It had one oversized, bloodshot eye and a second that seemed to float around the lower portion of its face like an iniquitous afterthought.

  “Use your jugular for a straw and suck your blood. Nice ’n’ salty.”

  “Eyes,” declared something else that had no name, nor want of one. “I claim the eyes.”

  “Not all eight!” The cleaver-wielding hulk swaying next to it objected strenuously. “Half are mine.” It raised the immense blade.

  Holding his sword at the ready, with a tensed Hunkapa Aub guarding his left side, Simna ibn Sind brayed defiance. “Come on then, you piss-poor pack of putrescence! You motherless self-fornicators! We’ll see who’s skilled with a blade here, and who’s ripe for butchering! I’m thirsty, and I mean to drink my fill at your town fountain. And if that means going through you instead of around, then by Gucoron, have at it!” He nodded to his right, where a tall figure stood silently holding a larger sword before him.

  “This here is Etjole Ehomba, the most powerful wizard on either side of the Semordria Ocean! Press him, and he’ll blow out your eyes and pickle your entrails!” He gestured with one hand. “Come on then, you long-winded flock of featherless foulness!”

  “A wizard.” One of the other butchers cackled. “Mortal magic doesn’t work here, little meat. The atmosphere is all wrong. Too dry, or too hot, or too disrespectful. Skawpane is rife with impudence and contempt for anything that seeps in from the world outside. Your magic, if you command any, which by the looks of you I seriously doubt, will not save you here.” Saclike, malignant eyes bored into those of the swordsman. “You’re going to die here, little meat. But you won’t be food for worms, because we leave no scraps for our pets.”

  “Had a pet once,” mumbled the thing with one oversized eyeball and one too small, “but it made too much noise one day. So I ate it. It was greasy.” Rubbery lips smacked. “I like grease.”

  With a roar that would have chilled the blood of less hardened pilgrims, two of the largest abominations lurched forward. Simna ducked a slice from a skinning knife that was easily big enough to decapitate a buffalo in a single swipe. Charging forward, Hunkapa Aub struck the creature beneath two of its four arms and knocked it off its feet. Ahlitah was an ebony blur, slashing and snapping anything that came near. Several of the rapacious monstrosities tried to surround the big cat, but it was much too quick for them.

  Like a runaway guillotine, a gigantic meat cleaver descended in Ehomba’s direction, aiming squarely for the herdsman’s head. Bringing the sky-metal sword up and around, he parried the blow. Sparks flew as metal struck metal with a reverberant ring that echoed back and forth across the street. The attention of his own assailants momentarily diverted by Hunkapa Aub, Simna saw the two blades make contact—and his heart sank.

  A chunk the size of a small plate had been taken out of the side of the sky-metal blade.

  He wanted to shout at his friend, to hear an explanation for what had just happened. Sorcerer supreme Ehomba might be, or simple herder of cattle and sheep as he claimed, but there was no disputing the power of the singular sword. Simna had seen it in action too many times to doubt its alchemical provenance. Whatever happened to its owner, it was impossible for the weapon to fail. Impossible!

  Yet, a second blow from the raging demon’s cleaver took another piece out of the blade. Many more impacts like that and Ehomba would be left without anything to fight with. Somehow Simna knew that the herdsman’s other weapon of choice would not save them here. The efficacy of the sea-bone sword this far from the ocean would be much in doubt. Butchers from the netherworld would probably greet the sharks the blade’s teeth would bring forth as another welcome source of meat, be it solid or numinous.

  As for the herdsman’s spear, that was a last hope held in reserve, but the swordsman remembered his tall friend saying on more than one occasion that its startling effects were of brief duration, and therefore could not be counted upon for more than momentary salvation. As he looked on, the herdsman parried still another weighty swing. A third section of sword shattered violently.

  The blighted butchers pressed their assault. Hunkapa was holding his own, and the black litah doing real damage. In a fair fight the visitors might well have prevailed. But they were outnumbered, and by creatures for whom Death itself was an old friend. Their assailants had relentless confidence and no fear.

  Simna had to admire the way Ehomba fought on, stolid and expressionless, swinging his failing blade with steadfast determination as if nothing were wrong. By himself he was holding off the three biggest of their assailants, whose heavy cleavers were taking a terrible toll on the herdsman’s weapon. The stocky mercenary was about to shout the suggestion that Ehomba throw away his deteriorating weapon and try the magic of the spear, when a glint out of the corner of his eye momentarily diverted his attention.

  It was one of the many splinters the frenzied demons had struck from the surface of the sky-metal sword. The tiny bit of metal was glowing brightly, emitting a vaporous fragment of the deep azure light that Simna had seen the whole sword give off when justly held in both Ehomba’s long-fingered hands. As he stared, still vigorously defending himself but keeping an eye on the splinter, it rose from the slimed street, shining more brightly than ever. Beneath his disbelieving gaze it expanded until it was more than a foot long and pulsing with an intense blue light. He had seen that same fierce, cold, cobalt effulgence before—at moments that had preceded deliverance.

  Something else put a claim on his attention. Three more of the shattered splinters were rising from the ground, elongating and glowing. Off to his left rose still another half dozen, burning with an angry, internal, azure radiance. Ahlitah gave ground as a handful of metal shavings beneath his feet lifted to luminous attention, and Hunkapa Aub paused in his exertions to stare mesmerized at the shards that were rising from the ooze beneath his very feet.

  Everywhere splinters and fragments from the sky-metal sword had landed it was the same. Every flake and chip, no matter how small, no matter how seemingly insignificant, was rapidly regenerating itself as a smaller version of the matriarchal sword. At the sight the diabolic butchers slowed but did not halt their attack.

  Then Ehomba took a step back from the conflict. Holding the sword hilt tightly in both hands, he raised the remnants of the primary blade over his head. In concert, a thousand smaller versions of the original weapon rose skyward and hung, glowing, parallel to the ground. The field of battle before the demonic slaughterhouse was engulfed in lambent blue.

  When next the herdsman swu
ng the peerless weapon aggressively, a thousand lustrous offspring mimicked the blow to glistening metallic perfection.

  XVII

  A cerulean wind moaned as the thousand blades struck at the loathsome assailants. When the demon-butchers attempted to rally and strike back, Ehomba dipped his sword and their blows were met by a thousand unyielding parries. At that moment more than the tide of battle turned: The dark heart, the evil essence of the enemy, evaporated like a palmful of water on the scorched approach to Skawpane.

  Not that they ran. Flight was not in their nature. They fought on, continuing their efforts to slaughter the handful of obstreperous mortals. All that had changed was that one of their human opponents now wielded a thousand blades where moments ago there had been only one.

  Come to think of it, everything had changed.

  So elated by this unexpected turn of events was Simna ibn Sind that he forgot to taunt his lanky companion about his supposed lack of sorceral skills. The swordsman was too busy thrusting and hacking as he threw himself at their adversaries. One on one, he was convinced that nothing lived, of this Earth or anywhere else, that could stand against him. Part of this was due to actual skill, part to confidence, and part to pure bluster. Stirred together in the anima of the stocky swordsman, they made him a dangerously unpredictable opponent.

  Bellowing defiance, Hunkapa Aub was breaking limbs and heaving opponents into nearby walls with unbridled gusto, his great strength and boundless energy giving even the most formidable of the fiends pause. The black litah was a dark streak of feline dynamism; blurred destruction. Fang and claw left their multiple marks on many assailants, who searched in vain for a tormentor who had already moved off to attack someone else.

  A monstrous cleaver descended, only to have its path blocked by a hundred blades. Many splintered under the impact, but many did not. Bringing his weapon up and around, Ehomba visited a hundred deep cuts on his assailant. The towering brute gasped and clutched at its flank, unable to stop the flow of green blood from its side. And each of the metallic splinters from the dozens of smaller swords it had shattered arose afresh to give birth to a hundred new sharp points and edges.