D & D - Red Sands (24 page)

Marix tapped a finger to his lips. "Climb," he said. "From the base to the top."

"How?" asked jadira. "There are no hand or foot holds."

"There is a way." He turned his back on the scene and drew his knees up to his chest. "In my country, we have many trees. Some, like the oak, grow to heights as great as these chimneys, yet the woodmen of Dosen climb them and top out the trees before felling them."

"Trees have branches," Uramettu observed. "The flues do not."

"The tall oaks of Dosen have no lower limbs," said Marix. "Not for ten, fifteen, or even twenty paces up. The woodmen climb the trunks by means of spikes on the sides of their shoes, and wide leather straps that encircle the trunk."

The others couldn't see what he meant. He stood and demonstrated. Facing the group, he leaned back. "See, the leather strap acts as a brace against the climber's back and the tree trunk." He put out his hands, gripping an imaginary strap that ran around his waist.

"Clever," said Uramettu, "but the method raises another serious problem. In order to climb, we must be able to reach the base." She looked past Marix and Jadira at the gnoles below. Ubrith Zelka had stopped haranguing the horde. They began chanting again. The gnoles banged javelin shafts on their shields, creating an unholy racket.

"The dark one speaks true," said Elperath. "To reach the foot of the Joj Xarar could cost many lives."

"Many, many lives," added Elperex.

"Then we'll have to find a more stealthy approach," said Jadira. The sound of leather scraping rock reached them. A gnole guard, standing on an outcropping some paces away, had stumbled. "Let us retire to a safer spot," Jadira continued in a whisper. Everyone agreed. The 'strelli flew away, and the companions slipped, one by one, out of the cleft and made their way back to the village by the way they had come.

The Invincibies withdrew from Chatal and camped across the valley. Fu'ad posted men on the heights to guard against sniping bowmen, then settled his troopers into a snug canyon.

"Cold camp," he ordered. No fires were to be lit to reveal their presence to the gnoles. The Faziris grumbled a bit, but they knew their captain's aim was sound. So, like the well-trained men they were, they unsaddled their horses, groomed them, and dined on raisins, bread, and pressed figs.

Fu'ad curried his horse with long, straight strokes, working out the dust and grime of a hundred leagues. It was a distracting task; one of the few in a cavalryman's life that made him forget his imperative duty.

A trooper on foot came clattering down the rocky slope to where Fu'ad stood. His helmet was askew and his sword had worked around his waist to where it threatened to trip him.

"Sir!" said the trooper. "Corporal Rustafa reports that someone is moving in the village."

"Just one?" said Fu'ad.

"Yes, my captain."

"And adjust your belt before you fall on your face."

"Yes, my captain."

A short time later, Marad and his party rode out to Chatal once more. Fu'ad knew that there was a chance the situation might be an ambush, but he had to know more about the locale, the people, the gnoles, and where his elusive human quarry might have gone. There was no one he trusted more to get this information than Marad.

Fu'ad's horse was munching on the native mountain scrub when Marad returned. A limp form was draped over his saddle horn. The intruder wore the robes of a nomad, but his sandals were those of a city dweller.

"Is he dead?" Fu'ad asked.

"Indeed not, my brother. Our old rabbit here produced a rather nasty dagger, so I had to clout him with my lance shaft. He was very peaceable after that," Marad said with a grin.

"No doubt, no doubt." Fu'ad pulled off the man's headdress. He grabbed a handful of dark hair and yanked the unconscious man's head back. "I don't know him," he said.

The man groaned.
"Ai,
my head ..."

"He speaks Faziri!" said Marad.

"Why not?" said Fu'ad. "He is Faziri." He shoved the man backward off Marad's horse. The fellow sprawled on the ground. Fu'ad walked around and drew his scimitar. As the man sat up rubbing his temple, Fu'ad put the keen edge of the sword under the man's left ear.

"Now, you scum, you're going to tell me what you're doing in these cursed mountains, yes?" he said.

"Oh! Gracious c-captain! 1 have only just escaped, and was searching for water before I began the long journey home," the man said.

"Who are you?"

"Nabul
gan
Zeliriya, your unworthy servant, great one!"

Fu'ad lifted his blade slightly, forcing Nabul to raise his head. Their eyes met. "You are Faziri," said the captain.

"I am, lord. From Omerabad."

"And you were with a band of prisoners who escaped from lawful imprisonment in the dungeons of the sultan—may he live forever."

"I-I was."

The scimitar cut ever so slightly into Nabul's earlobe. "Then answer every question I ask you, and I'll promise you a quick death, you pig."

"Don't kill me! I'll tell you everything, I swear!"

Fu'ad sheathed his sword. "Where are the others?"

"I do not know, lord."

Fu'ad put his right foot to Nabul's chest and pushed the thief over on his back. Keeping the foot lightly on the thiefs chest, Fu'ad said, "Shall I tell you the fate the Emir Azrel has decreed for all those who have aided the vile criminals in evading justice? I can strap you to a horse and have you back in his hands before the moon is whole again! Is that what you want?" Nabul babbled it was not. "Then tell me the truth!"

"I am, lord, I am! They are on the move, great captain. I can show you where I last saw them."

"How long ago was that?" Fu'ad put weight on his

leg.

'' Yesterday! Yesterday!''

Fu'ad relented. "Marad, have this swine chained. At first light he's to lead us to where his friends are."

The unhappy Nabul was dragged to a nearby boulder. His arms were stretched around the rock and heavy manacles locked on his wrists. A trooper was detailed to watch him through the night. As for Fu'ad, he retired to his bedroll and slept more soundly than he had in weeks.

Nabul's Prize

For most of the next morning, the 'strelli were busy gathering lengths and bits of rope, twine, and cord from their homes. From this mass of cordage, Jadira and Uramettu wove two wide, flat straps. These would be used to climb the Joj Xarar.

Tamakh made slow-matches. He had realized that in order to light the escaping gas and survive, some sort of fuse would be needed. In his days as a young acolyte, Tamakh had learned many secrets of fire. While his comrades wove, he twisted strips of cloth and lint together and dipped them in a hot solution of wood ash and saltpeter. Once ignited, the slow-match would burn steadily and could not be extinguished by wind or rain. Only cutting the cord would stop the smoldering.

The plan called for Marix and Jadira each to climb a flue. At the top, they would fling one end of the slow-matches, weighted by stones, into the holes, and then climb back down. Tamakh would then light the other end of the fuses, and they would have plenty of time to flee before the sacred flames re-ignited.

"And what is my part in this?" Uramettu asked.

"You're to protect Tamakh from any passing gnoles," saidjadira.

"I don't see how lighting these sacred chimneys will rid the 'strelli of the gnoles. What possible difference can it make?" said Marix.

Tamakh explained. "There are thousands of 'strelli in other portions of the crater. All of them originated in the bowl where the Joj Xarar once burned. To them, it is a sacred sanctuary, the cradle of their race. When the llames go out, they lose the will to resist the invaders. If we can re-ignite the flames, the 'strelli will gather together and put an end to the gnoles."

"Do you really think so?" saidjadira quietly.

"Absolutely. I've learned that the Joj Xarar are symbols of 'strelli unity. When the unity is restored, they will purge the invaders from their land." Tamakh looked grimly at the coil of match at his feet. "In an odd way, I (eel sorry for Ubrith Zelka and his beast-men. Can you imagine the fury of thousands of 'strelli descending from on high?"

"Would that my people had a symbol around which they could unite," saidjadira. "Then we might throw off the odious yoke of the sultan."

"Symbols are not always towers of stone," Marix said. "Sometimes they are flesh and blood." Their eyes met for a moment. A curious look from Jadira found no response from Marix.

Elperex approached on foot, waddling from side to side on his small, fragile feet. "Hail, comrades!" he said. "Heralds have gone out to the other crater folk, telling them of the great deed to come. They will watch the sky, walking-friend Tamakh. They will watch, and when the Joj Xarar gives its flames to the air again, the

pip'strelli will take to the sky."

"Very good. Now, do your own warriors know the plan?" said Marix.

"I have repeated it to them thrice."

"Good. When the sun disappears behind the crater rim, we will set out for the sacred flues."

Some hours passed with very little talk. Tamakh went off by himself to commune with his god. Jadira inspected every thread in the harnesses and ropes while Marix sat nearby, his back to a 'strelli tower, whetting the blade of their only sword. Stone and metal made simple music as he drew them against each other.

"Do you know what I wish?" he said, lifting the stone from the curved tip and bringing it to the hilt again.

"What do you wish?" said Jadira.

"I wish the thief were here. He was a coward and a complainer, but he had his uses."

"Such as?"

"He could climb like a tree-rat. If he were here, he could go up the other chimney instead of you."

She bristled. "Do you think I can't climb?"

"No, no. I'm just worried about you. I wouldn't want anything to go wrong."

"I'll tell you something, Marix of Dosen. I've been fighting all my life. I fought for my place in the tribe, fought for the right to ride a good horse, and fought not to be a chattel of my husband. I don't want to die; even less do I want to fall into the hands of Zelka's gnoles. So I will fight with my whole heart tonight, and you'd do better to worry about how
you
will do."

He said nothing but stared at her intently until she was unnerved. Jadira said, "What are you staring at?"

"Someone very remarkable," he replied.

Nabul walked ahead of Fu'ad's horse, chains clinking in the clear mountain air. His wrists were fastened in front and a long length of chain led back to the captain's saddle. The ground was rugged and rising, and Nabul had to lean far forward to keep his balance.

"How much farther?" called Fu'ad.

"Another two notches at this pace, my lord. It would go faster if I were not shackled so," said Nabul.

"Ho, ho! I dare say you would go much faster if not chained! On this mountainous terrain, a man on foot could easily escape one mounted, and I have no bowmen to bring you down."

Nabul plodded on. He cursed himself inwardly for his folly. Why had he left the others? They were silly, overly noble types, true, but they looked out for each other, and nothing really bad had happened to him . . . even taking on an army of savage beast-men didn't compare too badly with his present situation.

A sharp tug on the chain brought Nabul up short. He became aware of Fu'ad shouting at him.

"Are you deaf, imbecile? Can't you hear me calling?" Fu'ad was saying. Nabul squinted into the late morning sun.

"Yes, great captain? What is your pleasure?" he asked.

"Stand still and be silent!"

Simple enough. Nabul gathered in a few paces of chain and sat down on the ground.

One of the flanking riders was galloping hard to Fu'ad. The Faziri was bent low over his horse's neck, and his lance was stuck out high behind his back. When he reached his captain, the trooper straightened in the sad-die.

"My captain!" he said. "A band of foot soldiers, twenty or more, are marching on a lower trail east of us."

"Are you hit?" asked Fu'ad.

The Faziri plucked the quarrel from his sleeve. "A wound for a tailor, not a physician, sir."

"Good. Rejoin your troop. Trumpeter!" A young Faziri with a square-cut beard sidled forward to Fu'ad. "Sound the recall. I mean to have these footmen."

"What about me, lord?" said Nabul.

The trumpeter blared a strident song. Fu'ad dismounted, holding the end of chain. He took a U-shaped spike from a saddlebag and went to the nearest boulder. With four blows of his boot heel, he drove the spike through the first link into the boulder. Fu'ad tugged experimentally on the chain, was satisfied Nabul was pinned, and went back to his horse.

"My advice to you is to lie low and pray you go unnoticed," Fu'ad said. "I will come back for you after the skirmish." Nabul ached to tell the captain what he could do with his advice. But he was right; Nabul would be easy prey for the marauding gnoles. The thief dragged the chain out of sight and crouched behind the boulder.