The lookout had also seen what the Prince saw. “Warship approaching off the starboard side!” he shouted, recognizing the manner of vessel at once. Captain Osari spun from his place, shading his eyes and peering intently where a long knaar raised its oars, and by the swell of its single crimson sail came slashing through the dark water toward them.
The passengers stared wide-eyed. It was a ship, a long ship, the likes of which they had never seen before.
“Hoist our flag!” boomed the captain, and the Cenulamian colors fluttered in the wind. The Aranian vessel approached cautiously, and Mariana gasped at the sight of the rugged seamen who had put down their oars and picked up shields and weapons. They were tall and rugged men, yellow-haired as was the Prince, broad-shouldered and burly. Upon their heads they wore helmets like barbarians, many made of hide, others of metal, some with twin pointed horns protruding from the sides.
As for the ship itself, its prow was swan-necked, thrust sharply upward almost as high at the mast. Perhaps forty meters long, its beam was extraordinarily broad, built clearly of oak and pine, yet seeming supple enough to withstand the hardest beatings of a pitching sea. Sixteen oars flashed from the black-shielded portholes at either side; she had no wheel, only a well-fitted rudderboard placed along the starboard side of the stern. A multitude of weapons ranging from axes to longswords, clubs, and knives were in evidence in open crates.
Mariana watched breathlessly as the knaar plowed to a safe distance from the Vulture and stopped dead. “They look like savages!” she concluded, seeing the man she assumed to be the captain of the curious vessel move to the prow and hold up a great battle-ax with both his hands.
“No, not savages,” corrected the Prince. “Warriors. Brave and daring seamen—forced to live under the shadow of the Eternal Darkness. They are fierce and reckless fighters, but we need not fear them. To us they are friends.”
“Some friends,” sighed the girl as the Aranian captain signaled for his crew to raise their weapons.
Osari’s crew stood shivering and terrified. The men of the knaar seemed awesome indeed—if it came to a fight, the Vulture would stand no chance.
The burly warrior commanding the fighting ship narrowed his blue eyes at the intruder and tightened the grip of his ax. His yellow beard, flecked with gray and black, hung almost to his stomach; his long yellow hair fell from beneath the imposing horned helmet, over his shoulders, and tossed gently in the wind.
“Who are you?” he called in the language of the North, a language that both Captain Osari and the Prince readily understood.
Captain Osari pointed toward the flapping banner. “A peaceful ship, Captain. From Cenulam—”
It was obvious that the warrior knew of Cenulam. He glanced at the flag, let his gaze drift to the crew, and nodded. “What do you want here?”
At this question the Prince bounded onto the prow and held out his arms in the recognized peaceful gesture common to these lands. “To seek your shelter,” he replied, shouting across the void of water. “And to speak with your Council.”
It was an odd request, and one that the warrior would not consider. “Turn your ship around!” he barked. “If you came in peace, then go in peace. You cannot land.”
“Just as well with me,” said the captain to the Prince. Knowing something of Aran from the stories told by unfortunate sailors who happened by there, he was in no mood to argue. To try and impose his will on these people was sheer madness.
But the Prince was adamant. “They must let us berth,” he said. “We need them.” Then he turned from Captain Osari and back to the knaar’s captain. “In the name of Freydis the Bloodax, in the name of Lito the Sword—I beseech you to change your mind!”
The warrior seafarer winced. The stranger had called the names of the two most revered kings Aran had ever had, bold, wise men whose stature had only increased in the long centuries since their deaths—but men whose names meant nothing in Cenulam or other lands. That this stranger knew of them was astonishing.
He put down his ax slowly, signaling for his crew to do the same. Then he took off his helmet and fixed his gaze on the stranger who had spoken. “By what right do you invoke the names of our kings?”
The Prince lifted his shoulders, meeting the captain’s eyes. “By the right of every free man. By the right of all Friends who come to Aran in friendship.”
“And you … are such a Friend?” he called back.
The Prince nodded. “I am and have always been. And I vouch as much for my companions, one and all.”
The opposing captain was in a quandary. A Friend of Aran was always to be welcomed; it was foremost in their ancient law. Yet times had changed. Aran no longer accepted strangers, and a true Friend had not come in more lifetimes than he could count. Still …
“What is your purpose?”
“As I have said, to meet with your Council. A small request, my good captain. Would you deny so little to one who has come so far?”
The able seafarer scowled and grunted. He signaled for his men to take their places and pick up the oars. “Follow me,” he called to Captain Osari, and then to the Prince: “If you truly are a Friend, as you claim, then you are welcome.” But here his blue eyes turned steely cold and he warned, “But if you are not, be assured you shall pay the price.” On that note he placed his helmet back on his head and gave the commands for the ship to sail.
“What do you suppose he meant by that?” said Osari, his eyes keenly following the knaar as it sliced easily through the rough waters.
The Prince frowned. “It’s better you don’t ask,” he replied. “But know that men of Aran are not to be toyed with.”
The Vulture, its own sails trimmed, stayed close behind the warship, as they sailed west into the setting sun. The sky had turned a blood-red at the horizon; the moon, crescent and low, hung between the valleys of the mountains on the port side. And finally another destination was in sight. The knaar slipped into its harbor, and glided next to a well-sheltered quay.
The quay was crowded with fishing vessels of all sizes. There, Mariana could feel the mistrustful stares of the rugged, yellow-haired fishermen who looked up at the foreign ship with trepidation.
There was something of a village spread out before them, the first they had seen in all their hours of navigating the island. A few hundred small homes lay scattered at random along the base of the harbor’s gently sloping hills. The houses were made of stone, with timber and thatched roofs. She could see few windows, but chimneys rose above every room, grimly attesting to the cold nights and long winters which made fireplaces a constant necessity.
Away from the village she could see orchards. Apple trees and wild berry bushes abounded. Vegetable gardens were behind each house; there were a few barns about, and she saw cows and goats grazing in a distant pasture. Beyond them all, she could not fail to notice again the vast forests that rose magnificently up the snowcapped mountains.
It was a harsh land. But there were children playing and laughing in the muddy streets; pretty blue-eyed girls and beautiful women, all in thick fur jackets, greeting their returning husbands and fathers with kisses and smiles, and holding their hands as they led them home. Smoke puffed up from the chimneys; the windows glowed brightly from the cooking fires. Suddenly Mariana could feel much of her fear vanish. She saw that Aran was not the hostile and gruesome place she had believed it to be; rather, it seemed quiet and peaceful, and she wondered how much of its barbarian exterior was a charade.
As the passengers prepared to debark under the watchful eye of the knaar captain and some of his burliest men, Mariana turned to the Prince. “What will they do with us now that we’re here?”
“Probably keep us under guard until the Council has gathered,” he replied soberly. “They’ll not trust us until I’ve proven who I am.”
“And then?”
The Prince sighed as he walked down the gangplank, gazing edgily at the gathering crowd of women and children standing back from the ship.
“And then we’ll know just where we stand. Look at the horizon, Mariana.”
She did so dutifully, peering into the splendorous sunset in the west. But then she tensed at a curious sight. Although the sky was yet bright, a portion of it, at the rim of the horizon, was already as black as night. And even though the sun was dipping into the darkness, it would not penetrate.
“Speca,” she whispered.
The Prince nodded gloomily. “Yes, Speca. We are almost there. Almost close enough to reach out and touch it. Aran lives with her shadow constantly; and her men are every bit as frightened of what lies beyond as we are.”
The girl chewed at her lip and looked away. “Then they’ll help us?”
He shook his head pensively. “I don’t know. But I pray I can convince them that they must. For without the ships of Aran, I fear we are surely doomed.”
15
Word of the foreign vessel’s arrival did not take long to spread; messengers traveled to the farthest reaches of Aran, saying that a stranger had come—one who claimed to be a Friend. He had known how to invoke the land’s ancient customs and hospitality, and had requested that the Sklar, the Council of Elders, be called at once and all the many Clans bidden to attend.
Many long days and longer nights passed before everyone had gathered. Normally this group of Clan leaders, Sages, and battle-wise sea rovers would meet for but a single week once every fifth year, to air and debate all disputes among them and to satisfy just grievances. Then the Sklar would disband, members returning to their disparate fiefs. But now it was claimed that a Friend had come, so very many years since the last. Each leader accepted the news with wonder, doubting if it could truly be so. Yet a Friend’s plea to be heard could not go unanswered; Aran’s law was firm on the matter. So the Sklar must be held, and the stranger must be heard.
Some journeyed from the Hinterlands, harsh and secretive places deep within Aran’s mighty forests; others made their way overland from the northern coasts called the Rock Shores, bleak and barren lands on the northern frontiers, where life was dismal and only the strongest and fittest could survive. Yet others of the Clans traveled in sledges drawn by wolfhounds, across a wilderness of frozen tundra called the Ice Lake, whose very name attested to the lives these rugged men led.
Mostly, though, it was by ship that they came, long, sleek knaars that carried them from their homes along the coasts, tartan colors of their Clan flying grandly above the masts. Intricately carved images of dragons, some spitting fire, adorned the spitheads; the ships bore sails of crimson and gold, ocher and blue, all tones chosen by their ancestors long before, when Aran was young and first settled by other tribes of the North.
The meeting place of the Sklar was and always had been a huge amphitheater carved out of solid rock, built deep within the hollow of a mountain. Since time immemorial the members had been free to speak openly here, to argue their causes as free men, and to await the Sklar’s binding judgments. It had been in this very place that brave Rond the Princeling, son of Ash, tore out the foul heart of the king of the Banes with his knife, and forever rid Aran of its last vestiges of Druid influence. Also at this spot had noble Tule banished the Hawliis by beheading the evil Clanmaster of Skule who had plotted Aran’s defeat. And yes, it had also been here that courageous Rik the Lonely had brought Aran the news of Speca’s fall, pleading with his peers for ships and men to come to their neighbor’s rescue. But Druid magic had cast a fearful pall over the Sklar that sleepless night, and when Rik at last did set out, he was forced to do so virtually alone. The Clans had watched silently as his ships set sail into the Eternal Darkness—and no man of Aran ever saw Rik or his men again.
These sagas and a thousand more were told of the Sklar and of Aran itself, but tales of the past made little difference now, as the Elders came one by one to hear and see the supposed Friend. They could not think of glories gone by; their only concern was for the strangers in their midst and what their arrival might herald for Aran.
During the handful of days while the Sklar was yet being prepared, the Prince and the other passengers were kept carefully guarded in a stone castle close to the meeting place. As for Captain Osari and his brave crew, they had not once been allowed to set foot off the ship. Virtual prisoners themselves, they watched and trembled while a fleet of warships kept them surrounded, blocking the entrance to the inlet and brandishing fearsome weaponry as a warning lest the foreigners prove inhospitable guests.
And then, on the fourth day after the Vulture reached Aran, in the cool of the evening, the Sklar was ready to sit.
Mariana stepped across the narrow drawbridge, bundled tightly, and waited as stern-faced Aranian guards brought her companions from their separate rooms. She gazed about at the darkening landscape, the high mountains rising majestically above the crenellated walls of the castle. A tall soldier prodded her gently, pointing toward the grim hill. Then they were all led single file to a set of wide stone steps that began far from the walls at the base of the mountain. From the base it was impossible to see the top, and the stairway she was being told to climb seemed to twist and wind ceaselessly as it skirted the rocky slope, disappearing at times behind the ledges and the shadows, only to reappear again and again at distant points.
Two of the guards took the lead, unspeaking and somber, holding their torches well above their heads. The Prince followed close behind, beginning the treacherous ascent. Next came another guard, then Ramagar and the haj. Young Homer was next, and then it was Mariana’s turn. Two more Aranians brought up the rear.
It was a starry evening, and the wind became more and more blustery the higher they climbed. Yet even with the wind the weather had turned considerably milder than on previous days, and Mariana wondered if at last the long winter was drawing to a close, even here in the far North. Some of the steps were crumbling and Mariana allowed one of the guards to help her hold her balance. Then to her surprise she saw that there were handholds embedded into the rock walls, quite a number of them, all of ancient iron, still as strong and as sturdy as the day they were placed.
Mica in the rocks glittered as torchlight briefly reflected along the surface. Lumbering dark shadows danced above and behind her, and she found herself struggling to catch her breath when the steps became sharply steeper. Pausing momentarily, she glanced below and was startled to see just how far she had actually come. Thick forests stretched out before her, ending abruptly at the edge of the fields and pastures. She could easily make out the sweep of the sea, listen to the roar of the surf breaking smoothly against the reefs beyond the cove. The houses of the village glowed with pinpricks of light, appearing so tiny that she was sure a single scoop of her hand could pick them all up.
The guard at her side nudged her, breaking her from her musings. She looked ahead and saw that she had fallen behind the others; Ramagar waited for her at the edge of what seemed to be a narrow plateau set beneath voluminous overhanging ledges. There was also the sound of water coming from somewhere, cascading water. When she finally reached the plateau herself she stared amazed at the sight of a waterfall of melting snow, pouring down from the ledges and over the rocks, and splashing into some unseen pool or lake close to the bottom.
“This way,” said one of the guards, gesturing for them all to step into a cavern easily overlooked in the darkness. The torches lit the granite brightly; the Aranian led them to a hidden flights of steps. These, far narrower than the others, formed a tricky passage right through the walls of the mountain and up to the amphitheater.
Entering the meeting place the small group was greeted by a sudden swell of bright silver moonlight which beamed eerily down upon the hundred or so somber and tight-faced men seated on a wide semicircle of stone benches. Mariana held her breath and swept her glance across them, shuddering as their own gazes fixed upon her and her companions.
The Elders of the Sklar sat rigidly in their places, each man dressed in the traditional dark robes of Aran, each with flowing beard and hair, each silently study
ing the group of strangers set before them.
A guard nudged Mariana gently and she took her place in a single-file line with the others, Ramagar to her right, the haj to her left. The leader of the stern soldiers bowed sweepingly before the august body and gestured the presence of the guests and then of the Prince, the stranger who claimed to be a Friend.
The Sages of the Sklar, older than their peers by a generation’s and set apart from the rest along a wide rock slab in the front, nodded severly, several dropping their gaze momentarily as they conferred among themselves in whispers.
Two guards gestured for the Prince to leave the others and brought him to stand before the bench of Sages.
“This is the man, my lords,” the first soldier told them. Then he bowed again and stepped slowly backward into the shadows, his long cloak fluttering behind.
The Prince drew a deep breath as he scanned his questioners, then he set straight his shoulders and stood to his full height. His eyes met the stares he received evenly, returning their obvious skepticism with a look of honesty.
One of the Sages stood, a lumbering, broad-shouldered man, very old, very powerful, and, by the keen look in his gray-steel eyes, very wise.
“You have come to Aran claiming to be a Friend,” he said to the Prince. “And we have received you as a guest. But now we are gathered, and we ask that you prove your worthiness of the title you claim.”
At this the Prince smiled a thin smile and bowed graciously with his hands cupped in a pyramid and his body arching forward.
“Who are you, stranger?” came another voice from the row of Sages. Mariana looked up to see who had spoken but was greeted only by the grim silent faces as before.
“I am who I am,” replied the Prince coolly. “The son of my father and his father before him.”
The standing Sage gripped tightly at his walking stick, his eyes growing wider and ablaze at the guest. He lifted his chin and tossed back a shock of white hair from his craggy face. Mariana could see that this man, whoever he was, was more than a mere spokesman for the others.
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 26
