"So he kills those who help him," he mused aloud, not letting Crecia see his fright.
"Only when he's done with them. He doesn't want to waste provisions on those who do not owe him allegiance."
"Then it's only a matter of time before my usefulness ends…"
"Brilliantly deduced, Tralane," she said with sarcasm. "I must say, you caught on quicker than Oram. I had to lay everything down for him, and even then he didn't care. Something must have touched his mind."
Tralane stood and began to dress. He did not bother explaining Oram to her, since he did not want to remember the man's story. He was vaguely annoyed that Oram had chosen him and not Crecia to confide his past to.
"What, exactly, happened to the first one, the tribal guide?" he asked curtly.
"I warned him a few nights after he came into the camp that his life was not safe with the Sorcerer King, so he left, just as you're doing now. The next morning a party of knights returned from patrol, and one of them was dragging the tribesman behind his kruushka, in the dust."
"I see." Tralane fumbled with the thongs of his shirt. He cast nervous glances at the tent entrance and cursed his luck. "Is there any escape? Or have I finally talked myself into my grave?"
Crecia sat up quickly and stared at Tralane as if he had granted her a new life. "Yes, if you would dare it."
He shrugged. "I have no choice. What's your plan?" She spoke quickly and energetically. Tralane listened thoughtfully.
"The Sorcerer King has an amulet called Wyden's Eye. It is with this instrument that he has been able to cross from his world into yours. Steal it, and you and I can leave this place for other worlds. We'll be safe in a land that won't be too different from the ones we were born to, and the King will be trapped here, unable to follow us. The wrath of your gods will no doubt fall on him as it did where he came from, and there will be a great war as the gods defend themselves from his lust for dominance. But all that is beyond our power to stop. At least we will escape that fate."
Tralane studied her, trying to estimate the strength and direction of her motivations. "Wouldn't it be easier to assassinate him?" he asked, puzzled. "Death is the common fruit of such political ambitions. I'd save my world and, while a new leader is chosen among your people, I could escape your camp in the confusion."
Crecia shook her head vehemently. "First, it would take more than a well-placed dagger to destroy the King. He keeps himself surrounded with defensive spirits and forces. And even if you were to penetrate them and succeed, he would be avenged by creatures held in check by his will alone. I do not think you wish to become a martyr."
There was sharp humor in her eyes, for she saw that her words had cut off yet another of Tralane's hopes for escape.
"And then Wyden's Eye remains," she continued, "along with the King's army. Another sorcerer will gain control of the amulet, and someone else will lead the host against your world. The King's secrets will fall into another's hands, and the pattern will repeat itself. So even if you should survive the Sorcerer King's measures of protection, your lands will not be safe to travel through for some time."
"You have a large store of convincing arguments." Tralane said sourly.
He was not enthusiastic at the thought of deserting his world to the Sorcerer King. The rumors he had heard in Gynnuland had proven all too true, and Agathom's willingness to send his knights against warring southern kingdoms signaled his readiness to begin challenging those kingdoms, the Karthasian Empire, and even the gods for dominance in the world. Word no doubt had spread by now of the invulnerable, armored riders. There would be blood and fire, and Tralane had little confidence in any country's or band of nations' ability to resist Agathom's advance. He tried to take comfort in the fact that there was nothing he could do. If he could not save his race, the least he could do was save his skin.
"Taking everything into consideration," he said, with resignation, "your plan is the most promising. Besides, it fits well with a notion I had earlier today of meeting some of my other selves. And perhaps Agathom will be thwarted after all—"
Crecia pulled Tralane down to her with surprising strength and whispered angrily, "Must you keep repeating his name? You'll bring him down on us before my plans are even set in motion."
Tralane sat back down and let her continue explaining her plans. Crecia's fingers worked the edge of the blanket, and her face was as white and hard as the walls of the ancient Temple City from the days of the Bright Empire.
"The amulet is kept in a small blue case; it shouldn't be too difficult to find. Tonight the King will be entertained by one of several creatures he holds prisoner. If you're silent and do not call him back from his pleasures, you'll have time to search through his belongings. I'll meet you behind the pavilion with two fast thorts, and together we'll gain our freedom."
Having quelled any doubts over his course of action with the justification of his personal survival, Tralane set his thoughts to the task at hand.
"Any guards, human or otherwise?"
"No, he's thrifty with his sorcery."
"Oh? I would have thought otherwise after tonight's display."
She smiled at his suspiciousness. "That was the King's way of amusing himself. Killing Oram hardly taxed his powers, though it reminded his subjects of their proper position and evidently impressed you. Most of his strength is bound in keeping his demonic allies under control. What remains is for his pleasure, which he does not like to sacrifice to the tedious maintenance of defensive spells and traps. He relies on such demonstrations of power as you saw tonight, as well as the common knowledge of his personal spirits and demons who would rise to his defense if he were attacked, to keep himself safe. Of course, his knights are his eyes and ears throughout the camp; with them he can keep his followers in check before they even have the chance to conspire. But I've been careful, choosing only outsiders.
"Since you're not going to attack him directly, the Sorcerer King's demons will not be disturbed. And, as I told you, he will be distracted tonight, so his eyes and ears will see and hear only his pleasure."
Tralane was silent for a moment, thinking of the dangers she had surely faced in obtaining all her information. Her smooth skin and sensuous curves were not marred by any scars of punishment—she had paid a private price. Hardness glinted through the lush darkness of her eyes.
"You are a brave woman, Crecia."
"I know," she replied, laughing harshly. "Oh, but we'll have to curb our pride when we travel the roads together."
"I suppose so," he said without humor. "But why are you helping me? I thought you didn't want to become attached to your lovers. Besides, there must be someone else in this camp you can trust to carry out your plan."
Crecia spat in disgust and shook her head. "I told you, he has his subjects well in hand, and he would see their fearful glances through his knights. I've never been able to find anyone willing to face him, anyway, and I've been searching for years. I am the daughter of a camp follower. I've known warriors and their ways since you were a cub. Do you know what it's like to be a tramp, a tool for men to use and throw away? Do you know what it is to be a slave? No, you're too young and, even with your travels and stock of tales, too inexperienced to know. Simply put, I hate my place in this army. I am lower than the servile wretches, the men who call themselves warriors and heroes and tremble in the presence of the Sorcerer King. You're the only one who can help me escape."
The hardness of her tone did not escape Tralane. When he added it to her previous display of detachment, he knew he would not figure far in her plans. She was using him as boldly as was the Sorcerer King, with the same cold calculation. He needed a shield to protect himself from her ambition, or he would find himself no better off than he was now.
"I assume you know how to use Wyden's Eye?"
"Naturally. It would be of no use to us if I didn't."
They exchanged looks, and for a while Crecia would not speak. Tralane could see her weighing her trust in him aga
inst her desire for freedom. He knew she had no choice.
"You must tell me some more of your tales, someday," she said in a sullen voice.
"I've heard, seen, and invented many of them. I would be only too glad to entertain you with some of the livelier ones."
She smirked, then bent down and drew a diagram of the amulet on the ground. She pointed to the places where he had to touch the massive center jewel, and in what sequence, to invoke its power. Her hair hid her face. After she had finished, Tralane erased the picture and started to leave.
"I'll see you later tonight, then," was Tralane's casual parting comment.
"I will be waiting," Crecia whispered, with passion lighting her eyes.
Tralane left, and found the camp deep in sleep. There were still a few fires burning, but they were widely scattered and kept up for the benefit of the sentries. He glanced up at the sky and saw clouds overtaking Wanderer. But Star Speaker was still bright overhead, and that suited him just as well. He felt secure with the knowledge that Pichen-ma-thele was watching over him during his moment of trial, then laughed at his belief. Even if the gods, by chance, were watching his progress, he doubted they would condone a piece of work that so resembled CuChani's theft of the light, for Wyden's Eye was to the Sorcerer King what the light of Star Speaker was to the rule of the gods. But then, since Agathom himself was a threat to that rule, the gods might well want him to succeed. Tralane shook his head and abandoned his metaphysical reflections. All he could do was hope that whatever fates were involved would favor him.
Tralane passed a solitary figure kneeling on the ground, still as a stone, and recognized Fatome. She was staring blankly at the knight who stood over Oram's unmarked grave. He felt as if he should comfort her, but he did not know how, and so passed on.
He reached his quarters without incident and gathered his belongings, all the while evaluating Oram's furs. He lined his netting with some, in the event he should find himself in cold lands, and left Oram's chest untouched. Then Tralane crept out and headed for a thort pen, where he led one of the creatures out, saddled it, and guided the animal to a cluster of wagons near the Sorcerer King's pavilion. Making sure his pack, pouch, bow and arrows were all secured; Tralane tied his mount to the back of a wagon and started out towards his objective.
He reached the Sorcerer King's sanctuary after evading a patrol coming in from the camp perimeter. The warriors were silent as they passed the green pavilion, which glowed as if a large fire were burning from within. Their eyes were downcast, following the long, sharp spears of the knights' shadows which crossed their path. When the party had passed, Tralane quickly took in the dispersal of the knights stationed around the entrance. He took a deep breath, deciding on a bold approach, and walked slowly, silently past them. The knights, like a forest of dead trees in the path of a gentle breeze, did not stir.
Tralane entered the King's quarters and stood shakily by the flap, wondering what could distract Agathom to the point where he would lose awareness of his surroundings. He quickly decided he would rather not know.
The sights and smells that had overwhelmed him earlier assaulted his senses once again. The air vibrated with enchantments; the scrolls, parchments, and cabinets full of bottles, powders, and tubes all seemed to be warning him, forbidding him to go on. The subtle, murmurous voices filled his head with fear. He plunged into his search.
He scanned the objects the Sorcerer King had left out in the open, but the blue case was not among them. The only thing of interest which caught his attention was a long, thin bottle with gaseous, iridescent colors swirling within, standing on top of the table. Tralane thought he could hear the bottle sigh and moan and looked away, fearing it to be a trick to capture his mind.
After some hesitation, Tralane proceeded to open every large chest and cabinet he could find and rummage through their contents. He winced at every creak of a hinge and rustle of fabric against wood; he tried to assuage his anxiety by attributing it to his falling out of practice in the handling of magical implements. But the little noise he made did not bring the Sorcerer King back from whatever pleasures distracted him, and Tralane continued hunting for the amulet.
Then, as he opened a cabinet, a vial that had been placed on the edge of a shelf fell and broke. The tinkling sound seemed to shatter the air, and the voices that had been warning Tralane suddenly ceased to speak. The silence was heavy until, from out of the bottle on the table, there came a blood-chilling roar.
The sound shocked Tralane into action. He toppled the cabinet and glanced over its scattered contents. When he did not find the amulet, he tore violently through the rest of the King's possessions, tossing aside and smashing everything that came before him in his frantic effort for haste.
He saw the blue case in his hand even as he was beginning to throw it away. Ripping away the cover, he found the amulet Crecia had described to him and clutched it hard in his fingers. Wyden's Eye was cool to the touch, and sent strange pulsations through his arm. Too frightened to feel relief, Tralane turned to leave and felt the blood drain from his face.
In front of him, rising out of the bottle he had noticed earlier, was a smoky apparition whose face was Agathom's. It stared at Tralane with hard, red eyes, and its mouth, which was becoming as solid as its eyes, moved as if shouting terrible curses. Next to this wraith, another creature was beginning to take form. It was a woman of some kind, with fierce, seductive eyes, and teeth that were sharp between her full, cruel lips. As her body grew from the smoke belching out of the bottle, Agathom emerged from some curtained alcove, and she sprang at the Sorcerer King and pinned his arms to his side. Her voice cut through the air like a whistling sword, keen with hate.
"Now you will pay, mortal," she screamed, eyes gleaming like cold steel in the sun. "I will have my vengeance for the vile service you forced upon me. Suffer! Anguish over your foolishness as I let the blood run from your human veins."
Tralane suppressed a cry of terror and edged his way around the two struggling figures. Agathom, pressed by the demon, could only watch as Tralane passed out of his pavilion.
Once outside, Tralane broke into a run, heading for the wagons where he had left his thort and provisions. Some of the knights were moving, but the Sorcerer King was too preoccupied to control his minions with any accuracy. Tralane had no difficulty in evading their clumsy attempts to stop him. He urged himself on, relieved to find his voice and reason intact—he would not end up like Agathom's crippled servant.
A woman shouting his name made him look back over his shoulder. Crecia was standing by the King's quarters, waving her hands over her head.
"Over here, in the back," she yelled, pointing to a cluster of tents where two thorts were waiting, fidgeting nervously.
At some future time, he hoped he would smile at Crecia's position with unburdened good humor. Had she truly wanted to leave the trade she had been born into, she would have stolen the Eye herself a long time ago. He thought righteously of his escape from Mathi and ignored the pleas for help she was sending after him. She had in her all the evils he knew so well—hardness, deceit, and passionate hatred for the past—and which he did not trust in himself, much less in her. She was not, he had carefully reasoned, a proper companion for him. She was also standing too close to what he felt would very soon become the center of violent activity. He waved back to her, warning her away, and continued running. His conscience was for the moment assuaged.
As he reached his thort, a sound like a great gust of wind, bringing with it a storm, gave him an unwanted shove. Tralane looked back as he mounted and saw the pavilion burst into flame, then partially collapse. Agathom, who once again seemed to be twice his normal size, had broken free of the demon's grasp and was forcing her back into the flames in which they both stood. The demon wailed, and blood trickled from her mouth like molten metal. The knights were fully animated and, just as he had thought, were surrounding Crecia. He shrugged apologetically and urged his thort to a run, thankful of his escape.
The pounding hooves of kruushkas and the leveled lances of the knights reminded him of his uncompleted escape. The camp was stirring, springing to life as warriors tumbled out of tents and wagons, swords in their hands. Amid the shouts and curses, Tralane ran the formula of motions Crecia had taught him over in his mind, and passed his hand over the amulet he had been desperately holding in his fist all the while.
There was no change, and a fear that Crecia had lied to him pierced him with the force of an arrow. But then the sounds of pursuit began to fade, and with every stride the camp lost a little more of its solid reality. He rode low and hugged the thort's bobbing neck.
"Agathom! Agathom! Agathom!" he shouted in a wild, jubilant voice. Then he laughed as he thought a demon would, or as CuChani had done in another age, and drove his mount into an unrelenting gallop until dawn broke over the new world's horizon.
Chapter 4
Tralane rode into the town the caravan leader had called Fargouet, grateful for the food and shelter it promised. He had already thanked the traders he had met a few days past with some lively songs and tales and felt no need to appease their guardian spirits with any more gratitude. The long, dreary days spent on the Ousho Plains, buffeted since his escape from Agathom by a raging storm and with nothing more than an ill-tempered thort for companionship, had washed away the shell of fine sentiments Tralane had cultivated over the course of his many pledges of service as a courtier. He had been reduced to little more than a core of cold, hungry desire for survival.
However, after the brief renewal of companionship and the enjoyment of physical comfort in the caravan camp, Tralane's single-minded pursuit of survival had been colored with other thoughts. The abandonment of his world to the Sorcerer King, and the ties broken by death or betrayal with Oram and, presumably, Crecia, were sources of discomfort even more irritating than storms and thorts. The boredom of leaving the caravan camp and returning into the wilderness had left fertile ground in which guilt and self-recrimination could grow. He was anxious to acquire the constant company and distractions of civilized society.
The Bard of Sorcery Page 5
