Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (20 page)

So passed another hour of walking at a slow,
Zwicia dictated pace, the only sounds to be heard, the scuffling of
boots on loose rock, the twittering of tree-infested birds, and an
occasional, meaningless Zwicia-mumble, the trees crowding ever
closer, their scent blocking competing odors.

Until John found himself at the edge of a
defile that plunged into a heavily-wooded valley, the ubiquitous
pines joined there by deciduous trees -- oaks, elms, hickories --
soaring to knit a leafy canopy above the road.

Before clambering down from the rim to enter
that tangle at the bottom, John called another halt.

Below them, forest birds shrieked from
leaf-thickened branches before flying off with the warning that the
most dangerous of creatures -- men -- were near, the strident bird
calls striking John as harbingers of hate.

Stupid. Superstitious. ..........
Worrisome.

"Keep together," John warned, and waved the
others forward, John still in the lead, Robin bringing up the
rear.

Easing down the rocky slope, the party
entered the woods at the bottom.

Dark and damp -- was the first impression of
the forest. Cool -- was the second: the temperature dropping
beneath the thatch of trees. Underfoot, the path turned slick as
lichens squirmed across the forest's fenny track, the path itself
wriggling like a wounded snake. Slithering past ... what? Ponds?
Bogs?

Birds flitted through the latticed ceiling of
dark greenery. Shrilled at them from treetops.

Squirrels skittered.

Insects scraped and buzzed.

Until, in defiance of explanation in that
thickening forest, the animal noises ... stopped.

Silence. In nature, a truly ominous
sound.

It was then that John's fears solidified into
two dangerous looking men on the trail ahead, not so much coming
toward John's party as blocking the path. Glancing over his
shoulder, John saw that retreat was no longer possible, three other
strangers positioned directly behind them.

All with the look of the predator.

Now aware of the intruders, everyone
stopped.

John glanced behind him to see the rough men
closing, John whirling back to find those in front were armed, a
long knife dangling from the belt of the bigger of the men ahead,
the other man with a club.

Not knowing what to do, only that he had to
do something, John slipped off his pack and fumbled out the
soldier's sword, the only weapon the party had.

With a gravelly yell from the men in front,
the hardened looking strangers closed in a burst, the first to
reach John's party knocking Robin to the ground and grabbing
Platinia.

Seeing that the bandit had a knife at
Platinia's throat, Zwicia gave one of her paralyzing screams which,
if John's party had been armed, might have helped.

As it was, Zwicia's yell caused only
momentary confusion, a space of time in which John could feel
Platinia looking at him, pleading with him to surrender so that she
might live.

Throwing down the sword, John told himself
that neither fight nor flight was an option, the situation
hopeless.

"Good," grunted the largest of the men.

Close enough for John to see him clearly, the
bandit leader wore a hodgepodge of clothing -- soldiers boots, a
woman's robe of green silk, a traveler's woolen cloak, a red,
merchant's hat (each piece no doubt stolen from a different
victim.) The leader's dark face framed an old scar hacked down his
forehead, below the scar, shark-dead eyes.

The big man motioned for John's party to take
off their backpacks and dump them on the ground.

"You," the fellow said to one of his other
men. "Look." Putting his short bow on the ground, the underling
inspected the women, the thief who'd been holding Platinia hostage
letting her go so she could be searched.

Giving the women a cursory pat down, the
robber stuck his fingers into the belt pouches of the Army Head and
Robin.

Recognizing John as the group's leader, the
man searched John more carefully.

Found ... nothing ... not even the money,
John thought grimly, a pocket in the side of a tunic unknown in
this land.

At another arm wave from the large man, three
of the man's four followers tore into the packs, John noticing for
the first time that the fourth man was too misshapen to do the sort
of work the search required, the grotesque robber seeming to be
more animal than man.

Again, except for supplies, the bandits found
nothing.

Enraged that John's party had so little worth
stealing, the cutthroat cursed loudly and drew his knife, the
others, seeing him do that, also pulling their belt knives.

Was the thug going to order his men to
massacre John's party? John tensed his muscles in preparation to go
down fighting.

Except ... that the bandit leader ...
hesitated.

From his position at the front of the line,
looking back, John could see that Platinia had fixed the felon with
her intensive gaze. A look John knew. A disconcerting stare.

Glancing at the leader of the robbers, John
saw the man's butchered face break into a grim smile. The smile
into a grimace. The grimace into a leer. Clearly, at least for
Platinia, the man's plans had changed.

"Tie the others. Sassu, blindfold that one,"
growled the hoodlum, pointing at John.

And it was done, quickly, efficiently, the
man's three, able-bodied followers tying everyone but Platinia, the
man slipping a sweat-soaked cloth around John's eyes, knotting the
blindfold behind John's head.

A pause, and John was prodded off, the feel
of bushes scraping against him on both sides making it plain that
he was being herded off the trail.

But not far, John's guard forcing John to the
mossy ground, John leaning back to find himself positioned against
a tree.

And the others? No indication they'd been
taken to the same place, the lack of noise arguing they had
not.

What should John do? What could he do?

Time passed, John straining to hear ...
something ... picking up a mournful bird call to interrupt the
generalized droning of an insect inspired silence.

Was it possible that, tied and blindfolded,
John had been left alone? Or was one of the thugs there with
him?

Tentatively, John tried to get his legs under
him so he could rise. Got a sharp crack on the head for his
trouble.

That question answered.

More time went by, John's arms cramping, the
tie rope cutting off feeling in his hands.

How long had it been?

An hour?

Two hours?

Thirty minutes?

Whatever the time, the only human sound John
had heard so far was someone coming through the brush -- and
someone leaving.

Until another bandit pushed through the
thicket.

"So, you came back, did you?" said a thick,
sarcastic voice. Not the voice of the leader but of another of the
robbers.

"He was watching ahead on my orders." That
was the leader's bark. Apparently, three of the five bandits were
there with John. "Go to check on the others. It is time that this
new man makes a kill."

John heard a low, ugly laugh but couldn't
tell who had made it. Followed by the noise of bushes swishing as
one of the men exited as ordered.

"Kill him," ordered the leader.

Sweat runneled John's face and neck! His
breath choked in his throat!

Unable to do anything but listen to his
approaching death, John's universe shrunk to the hiss of a blade
drawn from a leather sheath!

Shaking uncontrollably, his mind a blank,
John heard another sound ... a strangled cry, like the combination
of a gurgle and a gasp followed by a thud!

The next thing John knew, someone was pulling
him up by his armpits, John's legs so shaky he almost fell -- would
have, except that he could brace himself against the tree.

John felt a downward pressure on his sore
arms. Heard a ... sawing ....

And ... his hands were free!

Whoever was with him had cut the
tie-rope!

Rubbing his hands, John massaged enough
sensation into his numb fingers to claw the blindfold down around
his neck.

Blinking his eyes into focus in the dark
glen, John saw ... a thick, oddly-dressed body lying at one end of
the small clearing.

"Hooc is dead," said a voice to the other
side, a voice somehow familiar.

Looking quickly, John saw a slender man
outlined against the grove's close-set trees, a dagger in a
blood-spotted scabbard belted at his side, the youth making a
hurried gesture to warn John to silence.

In the dark of the forest, the young man
disguised by his dirty patchwork of stolen clothes, John woke up to
the fact that the youth was ... Golden!

"Golden! I can't believe it!" Though
startled, John was doing his best to keep his voice down.

"I did not know that you had returned,
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin," Golden said, bowing solemnly, his dark hair
and eyes invisible in the shadows.

"But how did you ...?"

"We are still in danger, sir. Unless, with
your magic ..."

"Let's just say," John said, recovering
somewhat, his knees beginning to steady under him, "that I want to
keep my magic under wraps for now." John was rallying so fast
because, in this surrealistic environment, he never seemed to be as
frightened in dangerous situations as he knew he should be.

"Under ... wraps?"

"Hidden."

"Of course, sir. Like before."

"Like before."

What a strange happenstance. Meeting Golden,
here. If anywhere, John thought he might find Golden in Xanthin,
searching for the green crystal of Pfnaravin that Golden thought
was hidden in the palace, the crystal Golden hoped he could use as
a symbol of power to overthrow his uncle, the "pretend king" of
Malachite. "But you're right. And not only are we in danger, but
they've also got Platinia and Zwicia." Now was hardly the time to
ask Golden about his obvious relationship to the robber band.

"Platinia?" Said with indifference.
"Zwicia!?" Said with fear.

"There are four more of them. Holding the
others. Probably, somewhere off the road like I was being kept
here."

"Yes. That would be the pattern. Should
anyone come down the trail."

"You can find them?"

"Yes." Golden bowed again.

"It's your party," John said quietly.

"Party ...?"

"Lead the way."

Nodding again, Golden turned and, limping
slightly, slipped through the foliage, John right behind him.

Coming to the edge of the forest track, they
crossed the exposed path, Golden fading into the underbrush on the
other side, apparently able to follow a trail invisible to John,
John trailing as best he could.

Brushing through the forest's scrub, swishing
away needled branches, going quickly but quietly, Golden stopped.
Put up his hand.

Gliding up beside the young Malachite, John
looked through a fringe of pine needles to see the members of his
party in another open space in the woods. The men bound and
blindfolded, sitting on the ground. The women standing. The four
remaining criminals on guard.

Before John could think what to do next,
Golden had stepped into the open space.

Tossing up what looked like the bandit
leader's knife so that he palmed the blade, Golden spoke. "Hooc is
dead. Put your weapons on the ground." Realizing too late that
Golden had changed sides, with a curse, one of the thugs pulled his
dagger, Golden throwing the knife, flicks of leaf-filtered light
sparking from the whirring shaft as it spun off to sink into the
man's shoulder. John couldn't tell if it was the man or Zwicia who
screamed the loudest, the bandit dropping his knife to clutch his
wound.

Golden had already pulled another knife, as
John stepped from the underbrush to back the young man's play.

Golden's firepower convincing them, the
remaining thugs drew their knives and dropped them on the ground in
surrender. With a groan, the third pulled the thrown dagger from
his bleeding shoulder, dropping the blood-stained blade also.

The deformed bandit just stood there, his
grotesquely twisted body seeming to isolate him from external
reality.

Realizing that only John and Golden
threatened them, all four bandits suddenly turned and fled into the
woods in different directions, the misshapen man lurching
monstrously, the wounded man grunting and holding his arm but
scattering with the rest.

The fight over, no way to chase down four
robbers, all that remained was for John to calm Zwicia and for
Golden to cut the older men loose.

Worried, John glanced at Platinia -- to see,
in the forest's half-light, the same passive look from her as
always. He could only hope Golden had been in time to rescue them
all from their intended fate.

Following John's introduction of Golden to
the men (as a friend from an earlier time) and their thanks to
Golden, the party collected the bandit's weapons.

"I don't want to be lumbered with the bow,"
John said, making decisions on the spur of the moment. "Cut the
string, though. That way, if the bandits double back, it won't be
operational."

"Yes, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin," Golden said.

For his own protection, John picked up one of
the highwayman's broad-bladed daggers. Stuck it in his belt.

After that, everyone up and ready, Golden led
them back to the path.

Stuffing their scattered supplies into their
bandit-emptied packs, shouldering the carryalls, the party set out
once more along the winding forest track, John leading but
signaling Golden to walk with him at the front, John having a
number of questions for the taciturn young man.

Down the damp trail again, through the
silent, twisting tunnel of trees, the order of march was: John,
Golden, Platinia, Zwicia, Leet, and Robin.