The slave trader remained motionless within the concealing rocks. The wind, advancing in bursts, reached up the dune toward him, but he had no fear of it. He knew the ways of the sand, and here the wind was his ally and brother. It would be content to ride the low ground, passing him by. His mind began to wander over his bloody triumphs to while away the time, then again focused on the intruders.
Lout had suddenly stopped, and now he made the horses do the same. This done, Lout slowly faced Girl, his wide back hiding her completely as the others gathered around. A moment passed, and a gust of wind hammered the group, sweeping Girl away from the others. She tumbled across the ground covering her face with her arms and calling faintly, her voice lost in the roaring wind.
Lout dashed after her and plucked her off the ground. He held her close a moment, then, fighting the wind, carried her back to the wagon. There he set her down behind it, and Bigbreast took her in her arms, protecting her. Lout, with the help of Handsome and Whitehair, unharnessed the horses, then single-handedly lifted the wagon and turned it over on its side with a resounding crash that rose above the wind’s roar. He herded the group through one of the vehicle’s windows into the wagon, then led the horses and his stallion to the downwind side of the upturned vehicle, and forced them down behind it, tying them in place. This done, he climbed to the top of the wagon, opened the door, and the full force of the storm hit him and carried him away.
Lout scrambled for control of his body, but was tumbled and tossed further and further away from the wagon. When the momentary fury of the storm abated, he rose uncertainly, and again the dark cloud swept over him, concealing his muscled body.
A long moment passed during which Amadak could not see either man or wagon, and he smiled, certain the storm had finished Lout for him. But then a frown belted his forehead.
The storm was sweeping through the flat gut of desert like a mammoth, writhing reptile made of sand and wind, and within its blackish-yellow body, a small red glow had appeared. It was plodding against the storm’s flow.
Stupefied and mystified, the Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle watched the apparition until it went out, then bowed with solemn respect, just in case it was a god.
When the last flurries of the storm were battering the wagon, the slave trader led his eight men out of their hiding place. They carried long spears, and led camels laden with manacles, chains and carobwood slave sticks. When the last flurry had passed, and sun and silence again commanded the land, the slavers were surrounding the half-buried wagon.
The Black Terror, gathering all his most terrible thoughts behind his eyes, advanced until he faced the overturned roof of the wagon. Taking hold of the trapdoor’s latch, he suddenly opened it and thrust his head inside, intending to petrify those within with the horrific darkness of his countenance.
What he saw inside was a darkness five times his own size with eyes of fire.
The Black Terror of the Wadi Staboulle took three hurried steps back, shamefully urinating on his own foot, and the darkness came at him. The idea of spearing it leapt from the slave trader’s brain, but before it reached his arm, the darkness had pinned his arms to his side and was crushing him against the ground. The black mass smelled of sand and fire and smoke. It seemed to be shaped like Lout, but Amadak had no time to investigate. Pain was leading his mind elsewhere.
His armbone was being twisted out of the shoulder socket. His ribs snapped almost rhythmically. Something hairy forced his head back. His neck made a loud crack, and the pain shot into his spine. His head lolled sideways, and his cheek came to rest against pebbles of flint. His throat was filling with something hot and fluid. It spilled into his mouth choking him, and he spit it out. Blood.
Tasting the red wetness, rage and shame and fury welled inside the slave trader like a storm. He tried to rise, starting with his head, but it refused to cooperate. His neck was broken. The realization clouded his mind and vision, and the world went dark.
When consciousness returned, he heard men screaming, and the thunk and slap of metal eating meat and bone. Grunting howls followed, the kind made by his own men. The clang and clatter of chains came, and the hoofbeats of camels. Then his vision cleared, and he saw several dead bodies lying on the ground nearby. They were stained black in his name, and bleeding from ears and mouths. All looked as if some wild animal had been at them. Beyond the bodies, in the distance, his camels raced off without saddles or waterskins.
Silence followed, then a dark shadow moved over him, and a hand took hold of his jaw. It turned the slave trader’s face until he was looking into a snarling sun-darkened face with wide, blunt bones and deep brow. It was Lout. His breathing was loud and harsh. There was a hot glow in his eyes, and his lips and teeth were spattered with blood. Without looking away, Lout shouted something, in a language Amadak did not understand, to someone he could not see.
The sounds of people climbing down from the wagon came to Amadak. The slaver, measuring their different voices as they talked excitedly, counted four. The sounds of scurrying feet came to him, then the Black Terror coughed up blood, and it spilled over Lout’s hand. But he did not remove it.
Lout shouted something in a demanding tone, but Amadak did not understand his language. Then Handsome appeared, squatting beside Lout. He carried one of the Black Terror’s own waterskins and poured the slaver a drink from it, then spoke to him in his own tongue, using a tone that carried no emotion but curiosity.
“In what direction is the river… the Staboulle?”
Amadak proudly kept his words in his mouth. He had served Black Veshta too long to tell a stranger the secrets of her body.
Handsome asked again, and when the Black Terror still remained silent, Lout growled like the cave bear, squeezing his jaw. As he did this, Lout’s eyes turned red and smoked. The Black Terror shuddered with fear and spoke as rapidly as possible.
“There is no river. It is dead! Dry! Gone now for hundreds of years. Only the wadi remains! The Wadi Staboulle.”
“Where?” demanded Handsome.
“Here,” gasped the slaver, spitting blood. “You stand on it.”
Handsome looked around and suddenly smiled. “By Kram, you cutthroat, you’re right! We’ve been traveling up a dry river bed all day and didn’t know it.”
He rose and turned to his unseen companions, talking rapidly in their strange language and pointing off at the dry river banks, and their voices responded excitedly. Amadak coughed up more blood, and this time Lout removed his hand, dropping his head. Then he stood and went away.
The Black Terror listened to the strangers righting their wagon and reharnessing their horses, all the time drinking from his waterskins and talking excitedly. As the sounds of the rolling wagon began to rapidly fade off, he strangled on his own blood and died.
Twenty-Five
EN SAKALDA
The wagon bounded and caromed nimbly over the dry river bed, and Cobra hung on to the sideboard and Brown John’s shoulder to keep herself from being bounced out of the driver’s box. The wheels squealed, the wind whipped her, and her chain did a noisy irritating jig on the seat between her and the bukko. But her angularly beautiful face remained reposed as she studied the landscape before them.
The dry river banks on both sides were coming closer and closer as the wagon advanced, forming a funnel that led to a massive mound of black rock some eighty or ninety feet high. At its heights, rays of sun streaked through shadowed columns and crumbling stone walls. At its base, the wadi split in two and moved around opposite sides, indicating this was the spot they were searching for. The junction of the two rivers, the location of the ancient desert skin town, En Sakalda.
Brown John grinned at Cobra and shouted jubilantly, “That has to be it. We’re on our way now!”
She nodded, shouting back, “I wish it wasn’t black.”
“What’s that?” he yelled.
“The rock. It looks like the mound of Black Veshta herself.” She pointed at the soft rounded flanks
of the closing river banks. “I feel like we are being sucked up between her legs… to be swallowed.” He laughed. “That, beautiful lady, is not exactly how a man would look at such an eventuality.”
She smiled knowingly and slid close beside him, silencing the chain that linked them. Then she put her mouth close to his ear and spoke loudly. “I have to admit that your optimistic male point of view no longer nauseates me, bukko, but I do not share it.”
His brown eyes glittered youthfully in his wrinkled yet boyish face. “If you think that black doll has cursed us just because I touched it, stop worrying. I once defeated the consort of the Master of Darkness himself, and all I needed was a forked stick.”
She laughed, knowing he referred to her, and put a firm hand on his thigh. “Are you telling me,” she purred like a cat seeking shelter, “that I have nothing to fear… because you are personally going to defend my virtue?”
He arched a white eyebrow, then dipped his head affirmatively with theatrical aplomb.
She laughed again, scolding him with shimmering gold eyes, and said, “You only say that, Brown, because you know I have no virtue left to defend.” Brown John laughed again, lustily whipping the horses forward, and vermilion rose into his blistered cheeks.
Cobra smiled to herself as she watched him. The placement of her hand and her flirtatious humor had been calculated to flatter him and encourage his growing attraction for her. She needed him on her side, and in some way she did not fully understand, she felt the entire group was dependent on him. But despite her calculated flirtations, she could not deny she felt contentment at his touch, and thrilled to his laughter like a girl of twelve. It was as if they were being bound together in some perversely human way, and this she did not understand at all.
When they reached the base of black rock, Gath halted and Brown John reined the wagon up beside him. Robin and Jakar now sat on the roof behind the bukko and Cobra. For a long moment, they all looked about warily without speaking.
The mid-day silence was unyielding, heavy. There was no movement of air, creature or cloud. The dry heat reached beneath fingernail, penetrating mouth, nose and ear, and a torpor filled them as they studied the towering slabs of lava.
They formed a multitude of shadows and hiding places, and each seemed to hold a haunting mystery: the impenetrable shadows, the dark boulders carved like chain-links, the strange, voluptuous columns writhing out of the crest, the road winding in supine invitation up into the black body. Somewhere above at the heart of the mysteries was the trail they hunted, the Way of the Scorpion.
Gath shared an understanding glance with Brown John. He flicked the reins, and the group rode up the narrow road with Gath leading. At the top, they rode past crumbling walls and standing pillars, the ancient rotting edifices of some dead race, then through scattered boulders and up a bald rise. Gath suddenly reined up. Brown John started to do the same, but the Barbarian motioned for him to keep coming. When the wagon crested the rise, the bukko pulled up, and they all stared in silent shock.
On the opposite side of the rise, spread out on the flat ground which had once supported the ancient skin town of En Sakalda, scattered groups of nomadic tribesmen dozed in the mid-day heat under makeshift tents and lean-tos. About the area were stacked cages, half-built slave pens and piles of carobwood slave sticks. Chains and manacles were heaped beside anvils, where dying fires of dried camel dung glowed. Whitish smoke rose from the fires and lay like a vaporous blanket a few feet above the ground. It drifted languorously on the hot still air, making everything appear vague and ethereal. A stack of occupied cages rose out of the middle of the smoke. They held young girls. At the southern side of the camp, where the surrounding rim of boulders cast the most shade, was a large black tent. A banner dangled limply from its highest post. It was black with three red circles.
Cobra stared at it in shock, whispering sharply, “The banner… above the black tent! It is a sign reserved for the personal envoys of the Nymph Queen of Pyram.”
Brown John stifled a gasp. “But according to the map, we’re still a long ways from her territory! What are they doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?”
“It appears they are buying slaves,” she said, her voice tight. “We better ride in and purchase provisions from them… so they won’t become suspicious.”
Gath said quietly, “Bat soldiers.”
They looked at him sharply, and he nodded at some rocks rising above the camp site behind him.
A small detachment of armed men, short and covered with fur, were camped on the rocks, perched there like huge flying rodents. Their horses were tethered below the rocks.
Jakar chuckled cynically and said to Robin, “These guys just can’t resist you, tart.”
“Stop it,” she blurted, terror riding her eyes. Brown John smiled reassuringly at Robin. “No need to be afraid, lass. They can’t possibly be looking for you, not here. We’ll just ride in, buy what we need and ride out.”
He turned to Gath. Both men gave an imperceptible nod of agreement. Gath nudged his stallion with his boots, started down the incline, and Brown John moved the wagon after him. At the bottom, a small group of nomads emerged from their ragged dwellings and warmly greeted the wagon of traveling players, saluting it in the desert style, touching stomach, heart and mind.
They were lean, hard, dark men, with the bearing and pride of those who have bought and sold other men. Most wore heavy cotton robes, others had only their hips wrapped. All had daggers with jewel-crusted hilts hanging from their long necks, and the richest among them had their long dark fingers linked with iron chains attached to silver rings inlaid with red carnelians to ward off the dreaded green-bellied flies that worked the desert. There were Kamascene, Bakar, Nubante, Nalik and two or three tribes Cobra did not recognize. As they crowded up in front of the horses, several took hold of the harnesses and shouted to the bukko to follow them.
The slavers led the wagon to the back of a large stone auction block, the top of which rose nearly to the wagon’s door. The nomads were anxious for the traveling players to use the flat stone block for their stage, and repeatedly asked when the performance might begin.
Brown John thanked the slavers for their thoughtfulness and help, but begged off, telling them that his troupe was too weary from the road to perform. But the slavers insisted, offering provisions in exchange for an opportunity to see the two girls dance. To finalize the arrangement, they brought forth wine and cheese and bread, handing it up to the players, and the bukko had no choice but to agree. He promised that his beauties would delight both their eyes and ears, but pleaded that they needed rest and food first. The slavers reluctantly agreed to this condition and returned to their patches of shade to lie down and wait.
The troupe sat in the wagon’s shade and hurriedly nourished themselves. This done, Gath remounted his stallion and spoke to Jakar.
“Find out why these slavers are here and who uses the black tent.” He turned to Brown John. “I will find the trail.”
The bukko nodded, and Gath rode off toward the huge boulders rimming the west end of the camp, as Jakar casually strolled into it. Brown John turned to Cobra and Robin.
“You’d two better make yourself beautiful, child,” he said, “while Cobra and I see to the horses.”
“There is no time for that,” Cobra said breathlessly. “We must destroy the map.” Brown John started to object, and she added, “I can’t explain out here.” She took Robin by the elbow, saying, “Come, butterfly, we will need your help,” and led her toward the door of the wagon.
Brown John, being linked to the serpent woman by the chain, had no choice but to follow.
When they were inside the lower room of the wagon, Cobra secured the door and shutters. The hard trip had opened cracks in the body of the wagon, and thin shafts of light leaked in, illuminating the room and letting in the faint chatter of the expectant nomads. Finished, she put her eyes on Robin and spoke to her quietly but forcefully.
“St
rip to the waist, quickly.” Robin hesitated, glancing at Brown John, and Cobra said to him, “Tell her it’s all right, and give me the doll.”
She extended her hand, and Brown John blustered importantly, “Now just a minute, woman! What are you up to? We can’t destroy the map, we still need it.”
“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “We may be overheard.” He scowled, and she added, “Trust me, friend! The only safe thing to do is destroy the doll. It’s bringing us bad luck.”
“You mean because I touched it?” he said, scoffing at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am quite serious. We are on Black Veshta’s sacred ground. She rules here, some even believe the desert to be her body. And we have offended her, so we must destroy the doll.”
“That makes no sense,” said the bukko. “That won’t just offend her, that will make her furious.”
“No doubt,” said Cobra, “but it will also destroy the totem’s magic. Now give it to me.” She removed a small vial of dark stain and a brush from a shelf, adding, “Before we destroy it, I must copy it.” She smiled at Robin. “Go ahead, child, remove your tunic.”
Brown John nodded at Robin to oblige, and she quickly slipped out of her tunic as he, looking from Robin to Cobra, reluctantly removed the doll and handed it to her.
“You’re going to copy it on Robin?” he asked incredulously.
“Exactly,” Cobra said.
She held the doll up to Robin’s body as the girl pushed her ragged garment down on her hips, baring herself from belly to throat.
[Death Dealer 02] - Lords of Destruction Page 16
