Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (21 page)

John and Golden opening a lead on the others,
it was time for a little chat. "How did you know about the
bandits?"

"I was in their company," Golden said softly,
also keeping his voice down so the others couldn't hear. Did Golden
describe himself as a member of the gang? Certainly not! Just "in
the bandit's company." For all his sober, sometimes reverential
ways, Golden had never been completely trustworthy. "It was after
the battle. I was wounded. They found me. Took me with them."

In Golden's low, melodious, too calm voice,
the story followed. About how the Stil-de-grain Army had been
ambushed and defeated. About the rout through the marsh. About how
Golden had come to join the robber band, concluding with a tale of
Malachite marauders making it too dangerous for the "irregulars" to
continue in their camp in the Realgar Marsh. Driven out, foraging
on the run, desperate, they'd come "south" to link up with what was
left of the Stil-de-grain Army, rumored to be holed up in the
Claws.

The whole story. At least, all Golden was
prepared to tell.

"I thought the army was destroyed in the
ambush of Carotene," John prodded.

"Yes, though some, like me, may have escaped.
It is more that the navy is thought to be in the Claws."

"Still under the command of Coluth?" Golden
shrugged.

Though Golden had provided John with more
information about the war than John had learned so far, John still
didn't know enough to predict the war's outcome. If there was still
a Stil-de-grain Navy .........

Golden's revelations whetting John's appetite
to learn more, John began to toy with the idea of traveling to the
Claws.

The Claws.

During a quiet day on
the
Roamer
, John
remembered Coluth talking about that location, the Claws a series
of talon-shaped bays at the "bottom" of an expanse of water called
Sea Minor. "South" of the Island of Xanthin, the island itself a
fortress protecting the Stil-de-grain capital of the same name. (Of
course, "polar-inspired" terms like "North" and "South" had no
place in this pancake world.)

If what was left of Stil-de-grain defense was
gathered in the Claws, and if John meant to go there, that left
John with another sticky little problem.

Leet.

While it was one thing to include the
Malachite Army Head as John's traveling companion, it was quite
another to give Leet a look at what could very well be
Stil-de-grain's last-ditch defense.

A problem that could be solved.

John held up his hand to call a halt, the
others bunching up like the squeezed bellows of an accordion.

"Leet. I need to speak to you," John said,
turning, the Malachite Army Head marching forward.

Suddenly, Leet bowed low, his crippled arm
swinging forward, his short, gray hair almost in the dirt. "How can
I serve you, great Mage?"

"Mage?" What now?

"I heard the new man address you as
Pfnaravin, Mage of Malachite." Again the old officer bowed.

Though John didn't remember Golden calling
him that, he probably had. Was there no way of keeping John's phony
identity a secret?

The question was, what to do now? "And how do
you know he didn't lie?" Stalling had helped John get himself
orientated before; perhaps it would again.

"Who but a Mage would know the location of
Hero Castle's Mage-hole? Who could overwhelm this bandit pack?" The
officer bowed again. "And I knew the Mage, Pfnaravin, would come
back from the other world. The signs were clear. If I have given
offense by failing to recognize you sooner, my Mage, I beg your
pardon." Again, the awkward bow.

Of course! Put that way, it was plain even to
an unbeliever like John that John was the Malachite Mage!

With nothing else that John could do, he
might as well go for it!

"As it happens, I'm also the Mage of
Stil-de-grain," John said, pulling up the fake yellow crystal,
briefly showing it to one and all.

Shock!

Awe!

Respect!

And the turning away of heads until John put
the filter back inside his tunic.

"As for being Mage of Malachite, the former
King of Stil-de-grain stole my green crystal. It's probably hidden
in the palace at Xanthin." Golden nodded soberly, his face showing
satisfaction that, at long last, John believed him about the
crystal's whereabouts.

Only the old American, Robin, looked
incredulous. Which -- knowing nothing about the stupidities of the
politics of this other world -- he would.

Pulling himself together, Leet spoke. "I see
my duty. My failure to capture you was an omen. A sign that you are
fighting for the right. It is time for true Malachites to stand
against the usurper, Lithoid. I offer myself in your service." A
pretty speech followed by a salute and a deep, deep bow.

What a strange twist of fate, John thought,
doing his best to return the salute in a military manner. Just
another indication that, with a crystal of any kind, anything was
possible. "If I release you to return to Hero Castle, would your
men follow you?" From what John had learned from Golden,
Stil-de-grain needed every man she could scrape up.

"Yes, though we are not numerous. I came with
thirty. Two are dead."

"And the priests who came with you?"

Leet pantomimed his indifference.

"Go ahead, then." John had another thought.
"If your men will join us, what's the chance that other Malachites
will? If we spread the word that Pfnaravin has returned to fight
for Stil-de-grain?"

"I fear ...."

"You don't think that will happen?" John's
vision of a quick end to the war (and a quicker passage for himself
to his own world) faded with Leet's wrinkled frown. "You're joining
us."

"I have lived long. Seen much. Other, younger
men will be less easy to persuade."

"I suppose." Nothing to be done about that at
the moment. "For now, return to the castle and round up your men.
Send the priests out of the castle on some sort of errand. Then
find some Stil-de-grain forces and turn yourselves in. In the
Claws, maybe."

"Yes, sir." Again the bow.

The decision made to send Leet back to Hero
Castle, and if Robin didn't like it, too bad, John made certain
that Leet was provisioned for the return trip.

When a bag had been packed, John saluted. "To
honorable men."

"To honorable men," said Leet soberly,
returning the salute.

At the last, John felt sad to see the short,
one-armed military man doing his "about-face" to stride off down
the trail; wondered if, in spite of Leet's good intentions, he
would ever again see the old officer.

John leading his party off again, nothing
else of note happened -- if you didn't count the fear of his
companions at having to camp out that night in an unprotected
position -- it taking the rest of that day and part of the
following morning to put the dank mire behind them.

Climbing out the far side of the fen to a
grassy plateau, they had to spend two additional days traversing
more open country before reaching Grege, Grege turning out to be
nothing but a ten building farming village.

With no new intelligence about the war to be
learned there, John still wanting to get an overview of the
situation, he decided to press on to the rumored Stil-de-grain
naval outpost at the Claws.

The group stumbling out of the cramped, Grege
inn in the fog of next morning's up-light, Golden -- the man who in
his capacity as entertainer claimed to have been everywhere --
recommended a new path, one that paralleled the nearby Tartrazine
River.

Entering territory totally unfamiliar to him,
John relinquished the lead to Golden, Golden assuring them they
would soon cross the Realgar border, Realgar the last, outward band
before Cinnabar.

Traveling cross-band through mostly open
territory again, John had time to relax and look at the
scenery.

Farming country.

Houses built a considerable distance from the
road. Backyard pens fencing pigs and poultry away from vegetable
gardens.

Were those black, brown, and white dots in
faraway pastures sheep and cows?

It was another morning of unrelieved boredom
(except for when they encountered the occasional traveler -- pack
bearer, hunter, or pony merchant) before John's party neared the
new band, the gold of Stil-de-grain's sky smudging into Realgar
orange.

Approaching the band of Realgar, the border
still some distance away, John saw a wall of vegetation rising
before them as they approached, becoming a line of over-sized trees
and enlarged, mutant bushes.

The border!

Almost there, the air began to cool, the
bands of this world progressively colder toward the rim.

Nor could they mistake that "floaty" feeling
when they crossed into Realgar to stand beneath the
larger-than-life vegetation.

Band-sickness -- in reverse.

Continuing to parallel the Tartrazine, an
occasional glimpse of the waterway showed it to be slowing more and
more until it broke apart into a muddy, many-fingered delta.

Another day found the puzzling Tartrazine
gathering itself again, this time within a rocky channel, finally
to disappear into a great, roaring, sinkhole.

"River's End," said Golden matter-of-factly,
as if the subterranean disappearance of a mighty stream was the
most natural phenomena in the world!

After that, the road took a sharp bend to the
left, a pathway that put them on a direct line to the Claws, Golden
said.

Seeming to bounce along in Realgar's light
gravity -- even Zwicia able to keep from dragging her feet -- they
skirted low, round top, tall-treed hills, seeing orangish mountains
to the far right that Golden identified as the Mage Mountains of
Realgar.

One other oddity John noticed was that even
fewer people traveled the roads of Realgar than he'd seen in war
weary Stil-de-grain. When asking Golden about this peopleless
phenomena, all John got was a tall tale about how the King of
Realgar had eliminated half his population in a project to mark
trails through the country's Great Marsh: clearly, a legend passing
for history. As for the few Realgarese?? they did came across, they
seemed no different from anyone else. Except that they were dressed
in sky-orange tunics, the natives a bit taller than the average
Stil-de-grainer.

It was early the next day that John and his
people turned a tree-lined corner to see soldiers at the bottom of
a shallow ravine thirty yards ahead of them. Stil-de-grain
troopers, judging by the gold piping on their tan uniforms.

"Stop," called a guard, holding up his hand
as soon as John's party came into view. The man still leaning on a
low, wood-framed barricade, his four comrades came instantly awake,
nervous hands closed on sword pommels.

Still twenty yards from the barrier, John
signaled his party to stop as ordered, John continuing to approach
the officer, the soldier coming around to John's side of the
portable fence.

"If you have goods for trade," the guard
said, "we'll take a look at 'em. But our orders are that no
strangers be allowed back 'a this checkpoint."

"I've come to see the Naval Head, Coluth, if
he's still in charge." The soldiers behind the checkpoint exchanged
glances.

"Who looks for the Navy Head?"

"John Lyon of Stil-de-grain." John didn't
think it would hurt to mention the guard's home band.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
The sentry had a round head and stocky body. Was brusque but not
unpleasant.

"No. But it will to Coluth."

"Anybody could say that," countered the
guard. He grinned a crooked, waiting-to-be-convinced grin. The
military mind. Not much flexibility there.

"This is the Mage of Stil-de-grain," Golden
said quietly but authoritatively, Golden deciding on his own --
Golden-like -- to disobey John's command to stay back.

"Yeah? I heard that the old Mage was dead and
that the new one disappeared."

When in doubt, pull out all the stops. Which
in this case meant flashing the fake Mage-crystal, a single, golden
gleam from the ersatz gem having the guards shying back.

"I suggest," Golden continued dryly, "that
you escort the Mage and his party to his destination."

"Yeah," the leader said thoughtfully,
stroking his chin with one, hairy hand.

After a long moment, he turned to the other
guards. "Auers and Caven, come with me. You other two keep watch
here." The guard turned to John again. "If you are the Mage, sir,
we're glad to have ya. But if you're not ........" Even though
mildly put, the threat was implicit. "As it is, I'm sure ya won't
mind if I....?"

Never quite finishing his thought, the fellow
signaled the rest of John's people to come forward, the guard doing
a routine check of everyone in John's party. (He didn't seem to
discover Golden's throwing knife, however. Not much of a
surprise.)

At an order from their squad leader, the
other guards moved the wooden barrier to one side, John waving his
people forward and through the guard station.

"I'm Whar," the guard announced as his men
replaced the barrier across the trail, the soldier taking the lead,
the other two men he'd chosen posted in the rear.

Boxed in this way, John and company were
escorted down the trail, past two other, considerably more
elaborate bulwarks further on, other clots of Stil-de-grain
soldiers manning them.

Beyond the barricades, the road descended by
easy stages to a narrow, coastal plain. Continuing through tall but
sparse vegetation, they began to pass ramshackle huts and uniformed
men, John's party eventually finding itself in the center of a
noisy encampment, the seaside crowded with military personnel, some
carrying out assigned tasks, others talking, gambling, resting. As
advertised, this was the gathering place of what remained of
Stil-de-grain power.