D & D - Red Sands (27 page)

The gnoles' camp drums thumped in the distance. Like galley slaves, the beast-men worked at a steadier pace when cadenced by drums. As they drew nearer the site, the companions could see the glow of bonfires illuminating the bowl.

A gnole on guard appeared ouc of the dark. He spied Marix in the lead and brought his javelin to 'attend.' He growled a challenge. Marix drew his sword, as Jadira, Nabul, and Uramettu fanned out behind him. When the guard saw he was outnumbered, he reached for the steer's horn on his belt to sound the alarm.

"Get him!" hissed Marix. They charged. Uramettu threw her spear. The long pike was not meant for throwing, but from her powerful arm it flew straight and true. The horn never reached the gnole's mouth; he collapsed with two spans of spear-shaft protruding from his back.

Marix picked up the guard's javelin and offered it to Tamakh.

"I cannot," said the priest.

"It has no edge."

"The rules of my order—"

"This is no time for slavish adherence to rules! Take the filthy thing!"

"Be quiet!" Jadira snapped. "The Holy One is right. The javelin is not for him."

"Oh, filth!" With his scimitar, Marix struck the iron head off the javelin. "Now it's a bludgeon. Will that do?" Tamakh accepted the wooden pole without further demur.

They moved on. Jadira touched Marix's hand and said in a tone only for him, "Be easy, my love. Save your fury for the gnoles." Marix grasped her hand and squeezed it affirmatively.

Nabul put his smudged face to a notch in the rocks. Below, the gnole camp was a-boil with movement. A phalanx of halberdiers were drawn up at the mouth of the bowl, facing out. Companies of crossbowmen were jogging up behind them, taking their places on either side of the phalanx. The mighty figure of Ubrith Zelka could be seen by the largest of three bonfires, roaring and waving for his troops to get in position.

"Wonder what all the row is for," whispered Jadira.

"I guess the Invincibles' prisoner made his way home," said Nabul. He related what he knew of Mukduth's escape from Fu'ad.

"The gnoles know a party of Faziri lancers is nearby," said Tamakh. "That will be to our advantage."

"How?" asked Nabul. "They are alerted."

"Yes, but they are expecting a cavalry charge through (he bowl, not a strike from above. Why, three-quarters of Zelka's force must be massed to meet the cavalry."

Marix said, "That's astute tactics for a cleric."

Tamakh touched his forehead. "Abstention from worldly ways does not mean giving up one's wits."

"Just so. What are we waiting for?"

A terrible sight greeted them as they reached the cliff opposite the Joj Xarar. The gnoles had massacred four 'strelli captives and left the bodies there. The crude sign attached to one of the stakes said that this was retribu-t ion for the deaths of the guards on the night of their last visit.

"Does anyone have doubts about going on?" asked Jadira quietly. Visions of her slain husband Ramil surged out of her memory. She silently vowed that one of the live remaining efreet arrows would end its flight buried in Fu'ad's heart.

Marix was tying off the first shank of rope. "You first, Uramettu," he said. The black woman coiled rope around her forearms and backed to the edge of the crater. She had cut the sleeves from her robe and shortened the hem above her knees to give herself maximum mobility. After experimental tugs to make sure the rope was well anchored, Uramettu stepped backward over the edge. She lowered herself smoothly and steadily, with a hand-under-hand grip on the rope. Thirty paces down, her naked toes touched the powdery cinders. She freed her arms and ran to the base of the southern flue. She (touched low and peered around the broad side.

There were gnoles as close as ten paces. One was obviously a cook; he stirred a big kettle with a paddle. Beside him, a trestle table was laden with stolen beef and mutton waiting to be smoked.

Jadira skittered down the rope next. She slipped too fast near the ground and let go before her hands were burned. As a result, she hit bottom rather painfully. She got up quickly and unslung the efreet bow. In the broad shadow of the north flue, she nocked an arrow and waited. Pulse pounded in her fingertips where she gripped the bow.

Tamakh could not climb down; his arms were not strong enough to support his weight. Nabul and Marix tied a rope under his arms and lowered him. The priest alighted gently on his toes, without so much as a single rude bump. Marix and the thief came down together, burdened with their climbing straps and the slow-matches.

The next step was delicate. They had to get the wide straps around the flues. The web of rope and fibers was carefully blackened with soot, but they were too floppy to go around without an extra pair of hands to carry them.

Uramettu took the free end of Nabul's strap. She went on all fours and crept like a shadow around the base of the flue. Her poise and silence were eerie. She seemed, in that instance, more panther than woman.

Jadira prepared to bring Marix's gear around. Her throat was dry, drier than it had ever been in the Red Sands. She watched the gnole cook tasting the night's soup. Making an unsatisfied face, he turned his back to her and reached for a small keg of salt. Jadira darted around the sacred chimney so fast she scraped her right ankle against the base. The black tower may have looked smooth, but it was, in fact, highly abrasive. After she thrust the end of the strap in Marix's hand, Jadira noticed her leg was bleeding. Tamakh wrapped a strip of

cloth around the wound.

"Can you stand on it?" he asked.

"Yes, but it burns!"

Tamakh tied the slow-matches to the climbers' left wrists. Recovery ropes dangled from their waists. When all was prepared, Nabul looked to Marix. The count of Dosen's son and the street thief of Omerabad exchanged hand gestures of good luck.

"Tuus and Larsa serve me," Marix muttered.

"May the Thirty smile on the son of Zelir," intoned Nabul.

They climbed. Nabul, not having had a chance to practice with the straps, lagged behind Marix at first. He soon got the knack of it and scraped along. The technique was simple but demanding; first, you pushed yourself up as far as you dared with your feet. Then, you pulled the strap up from behind your thighs to the middle of your back. The hardest part, working the widest portion of the strap level with the rest, took more than half the time and effort of every pace gained.

Bits of fiber and tufts of rope rained down. Tamakh, standing with Jadira, said, "The bands are wearing too fast on the rock."

Jadira touched the bandage on her ankle. Blood was seeping through the single layer of linen. "The surface is like sandpaper," she said. "Pray it does not cut through the straps before the job is done!"

The stone towers narrowed as they got taller, requiring the men to brace their legs at wider and sharper angles. Halfway to the top, Marix lost tension on his strap and fell against the flue. He slid some way before the strap caught and held him. His slow-match got caught between Marix and the flue. It broke. The longer part fluttered to the ground.

Jadira bit her lip in frustration. She didn't dare call out to him. Tamakh made a hushed plea to his god.

Marix raised his arm and waved. He got his feet properly aligned and started up again. Nabul, who had not seen his comrade fall, was nearly to the top.

"Marix has lost his match," said Tamakh, picking up the fallen strand.

"What can he do?" asked Jadira. "Come down?"

The priest mopped his brow with his scalp lock. "No, he mustn't. Too much chance of being seen or heard." More bits of strap drifted down. "The bands may not hold as it is."

Something plopped into the volcanic ash at Tamakh's feet. Jadira picked it up. It was a note from Marix, scribbled in soot on a strip of match. It read: T CLIMB, LIGHT FIRE."

"Agma bless me!"

"He's right, you know," she said to the priest gently.

"Oh, why can't you carry the broken slow-match to him? That would work."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "The match would be too short." She held out the portion that had fallen. "See?"

Uramettu padded over from her flue. "What's this delay?" she said. Jadira explained Marix's predicament. Uramettu pondered the problem.

"The only way we can continue is for Tamakh to go up. Only he can make fire with his magic. It has to be done," she said.

"What of Nabul's match? What about that?" Tamakh asked a bit desperately.

"You can light it first, then have Marix haul you up," suggested Uramettu.

Jadira shook her head. "I doubt Marix can haul our

Holy One up alone."

In the end, it was decided that Uramettu's solution was the only viable one. Tamakh and she skulked over to the other flue, where Nabul hung patiently below the top vent. The priest closed the end of the slow-match in his hands and muttered the words of power. Wisps of smoke curled around his fingers. Sweat stood out on his face.

"Hurry, Holy One," said Uramettu.

Tamakh flung his hands apart. A ribbon of flame arced between them, and faded with a crackle. The ragged twist of cloth flickered for a second, then settled into a steady smolder.

"Now, go! Marix and Jadira await!"

Jadira had hastily sent a note up the recovery rope to Marix, letting him know the new plan. He dropped the rope and braced himself for his coming burden.

Tamakh was trembling. "Be of stout heart," said Jadira.

"I wish I were less stout," he replied. He blotted his damp lip on his sleeve. "Invoking to flame is much harder than creating sparks. I hope I have enough power left to ignite Marix's match."

"I have faith in you, my friend." She tied the rope securely under his arms. Two short tugs, and the rope strained to hoist the fat cleric aloft.

"Fare you well," Jadira whispered. Tamakh made the sign of Agma in the air and looked up.

He rose a couple of paces, stopped, and sank slowly toward the ground again. Marix was barely strong enough to lift him. Jadira glanced at Nabul's flue. The thief was descending even as the match burned its way to the top. They passed each other less than halfway up.

Nabul touched down with a light thump. Uramettu told him, "Go and see if you can help get Tamakh up the tower."

He wrapped the rope rapidly around his elbow. "What will you do?"

"It is time for me to check our escape route."

Nabul skipped across the lighted gap between the towers. He was fast and noiseless, but not enough to avoid detection by a guard's wolf. The gaunt gray beast growled deep down in its throat. It stiffened against its chain, and the gnole tending the wolf ceased walking his post. He unhooked the chain from his wide leather belt.

The wolf did not rush into the unknown beyond the firelight. Instead, it crept toward the flues, its broad feet coming down in the dry cinders so softly they scarcely left a mark.

"Dutu strike him!" hissed Nabul. Jadira looked to see what alarmed him. The wolf was barely eight paces away.

She glanced up quickly to see how Marix and Tamakh were faring. The priest was a third of the way up. Marix was using his backstrap as a pulley, having looped his recovery rope over it before
Tamakh was
tied on. The rope slipped, and the priest plummeted half the height he'd gained before
Marix
caught the runaway line. Tamakh bobbed and
swayed,
then slammed into the flue. His breath rushed out.

The wolf stopped. The shaggy gray head lifted, eyes focused on Tamakh's swaying figure. A long, piercing howl formed deep in the animal's throat—a howl it never uttered, for out of the dark sprang a powerful black form. Uramettu, in panther guise, reached the wolf in a single bound. Her fangs sank deep in the dusty fur of the wolfs throat. The howl was stifled, but the tenacious animal wasn't finished. Wolf and panther rolled over and over in the cinders—gray, black, gray, black—

farther and farther from the shelter of the sacred flues.

Jadira was distracted from Tamakh's plight by the fierce battle between Uramettu and the wolf. She gazed in horror as blood began to flow, for she couldn't tell whose it was. Then the fight caught the eyes of the gnoles. The guard who'd released the wolf shifted his javelin to throw it. The cook looked up from his kettle.

Jadira straightened her bow arm. She hooked the finger tab on the taunt sinew. For a brief moment, she feared she'd not be able to draw, but the nock came smoothly back to her chin. Jadira aimed at the guard, who was hesitating to cast for fear of hitting his own animal. She let fly.

The efreet arrow sped straight at the guard—to the last possible moment. Then it swerved left like a drunken raven and struck the cook in the chest. The stout gnole stared at the shaft that appeared in him as if by magic. He closed his eyes and toppled against his pot, upsetting the soup. A wave of boiling broth overtook the guard. He yelped and spun aside, dropping his javelin. By then the wolf was lying limply on its back, its life wrung out by Uramettu.

Jadira turned from this mayhem to see that Tamakh was nearly at the end of the shortened slow-match. He reached out for the twist of grimy cloth. Swaying, he missed. Again—the match fluttered just beyond his fingertips.