Perilous Seas (19 page)

“Why
not?”

“He’s
dying-or at least very sick. He really did have some sort of seizure. And he
told you the word!” Jalon shuddered. “That hurt! Gods, that hurt
him! And then ... Well, it’s amazing he had the strength to call Andor. “
He screwed up his face at the memories of approaching death.

So
Rap had killed Sagorn! Even if he was not in any true sense dead, none of the
gang would ever dare call him again. Revenge was a very sour fruit.

And
what of his soul? Sagorn had not seemed especially evil, although the Gods
would know more of him than Rap ever could.

Sagorn
had tried to steal Rap’s word of power. That was an evil to cancel out a
lot of good. But the man was not truly dead! How could his soul go before the
Gods for weighing if he wasn’t dead? Would it remain forever in some sort
of limbo, holding unreleased forever the spark of residue, the balance that
should go to join the Evil or the Good? The undead dark?

God
of Fools!

Gathmor
had been sitting hunched up. Now he lay back gingerly, wincing as if something
hurt. He glanced suspiciously at the other two, alert for traces of amusement.

“Rap!”
Jalon said. “You used power against a dragon!”

“I
know. I’m trying not to think about it.” The warlock of the south
might be on Rap’s trail right now. “Let me talk to Darad, please.”
That would be magic, but Oothiana had said the transformations were too brief
to be located.

Jalon
blinked, seemed about to argue, then nodded. The giant jotunn appeared in his
place with a stupendous splash, sending waves surging across the pool. Gathmor,
taken by surprise, tried to sit up and obviously regretted the hasty move.

Darad
looked hard at Rap, then opened his mouth in a huge crocodile grin, displaying
his fangs. Rap was tensed, prepared to jump up and treat him as he had treated
Gathmor, but there was no need. The fighter’s face was hideously battered
and disfigured with tattoos, yet as easy to read as a child’s, and it was
filled now with great amusement.

Chuckling
hoarsely, Darad offered a hand larger than Rap’s foot. “Thanks,
faun! You sure fixed them!”

Rap
clasped hands, saw the inevitable squeeze coming, and calmly bettered it. Darad
looked comically astonished at the resistance, then alarmed, and finally howled
very satisfactorily, raising flocks of birds from the trees. Rap released him,
suddenly ashamed. He was no better than they were, these crude, sadistic
jotnar! No, he was worse because he was cheating, not using honest muscle.

Unabashed,
gently massaging his damaged hand with the other one, the ogre resumed his
grin. “That primpy, prissy Sagorn! You made him look pretty stupid! “

“Liked
that, did you?”

“Loved
it!” The wolf teeth flashed again. “Been waiting a hundred years
for him to get what’s coming to him! He was a snotty, smartass kid, and
he only got worse. But you watch that Andor! Don’t trust him! “

“I
won’t. “ Rap studied the dim-witted warrior for a moment. “How
about you? Will you take the same deal?”

Darad
nodded vigorously. “You bet! You can count on me, sir! You’ll get
this spell off of us if anyone can-and it won’t take you a hundred years,
neither! I’m your man, Master Rap! “

He
meant it! Even as a mundane, Rap would never have been deceived by Darad. His
new occult sense of truth detected no reservations, and now he could readily
see that Darad was a born follower who preferred having a superior around to
tell him who to kill or maim. Once he gave his word he would be more loyal than
Andor or Thinal, and infinitely more reliable than Jalon, within the narrow
bounds of his abilities. Amazing!

But
Rap had not yet said he would accept this new henchman, and his hesitation had
provoked a very worried expression on the jotunn’s grotesque features. He
could have no real conscience, but he apparently had some sense of justice. “Sir?”
he muttered. “I guess I did a job on your face back on the boat there.
Got a bit carried away, see? If you want a few free ones to make us even ...
well, I’d understand. “

So
Darad would humbly stand still while Rap systematically battered his eyes? The
image was enough to make the new adept explode in his first genuine laughter
for days, and the resulting perplexity on Darad’s face only increased his
mirth.

“I
think we’re about quits,” Rap said, catching his breath. “You
sold me to the goblins. I set my dog on you. Little Chicken began the eye work,
but I gave the orders. Princess Kadolan burned your back, so we’ll count
that in, too, right?” Then, as Darad nodded and leered his agreement, Rap
had a vision of himself walking up to Inos’s aunt and blacking her eyes
to settle her account, and that absurdity convulsed him in more howls of mirth,
while the two jotnar sharing the pool with him exchanged puzzled glances.

Perhaps
his merriment was reaction to a narrow escape. It could just be excitement at
his new powers. It was certainly not very manly. Rap forced himself back to
sobriety, and shook Darad’s hand again, in civilized fashion, and the
deal was made.

So
Andor and Jalon and Darad would help. Sagorn was effectively dead. Thinal they
must not call, not here in dragon country. Rap had no illusions of holding off
a dragon if there was real gold in the neighborhood. He relaxed for a moment,
still enjoying the warm soak, and also relishing his new adepthood.

He
could listen to the distant murmur of dragons. His farsight was sharper and had
a greater range. His ability to outbrawl Gathmor suggested that he would find
he was expert at any skill he had ever practiced. He was as persuasive as Andor
now, and he could read expressions in a way he had never dreamed was possible. His
face was less blistered than Gathmor’s, although he had been closer to
the dragon; the scrapes on his toes had stopped hurting. He seemed to be
healing very quickly, and he wondered what other abilities he might uncover in
himself during the next few days.

He
turned to meet Gathmor’s scowl. “You want to get even with Kalkor?”
The jotunn nodded warily.

“Then
I suggest you stick around, too. There’s another prophecy: I meet Kalkor
again.”

Gathmor’s
pale eyes showed interest. “You’ll let me have him?”

“You
couldn’t handle him. Darad might-”

The
warrior growled. “Not a hope, sir! We tried a friendly bout once, and he
mashed me. Half my ribs and a broken jaw, and he wasn’t much more’n
a kid then. Fists, swords, axeshe’s the best.”

That
was an ominous report, because Darad also had a word of power. Either Kalkor
had more native ability, or his word was much stronger.

Or
else, like Rap now, he knew more than one word. But that worry was far in the
future.

“I
want to hear the whole story,” Gathmor said, “before I commit
myself to anything.”

It
was his own fault he hadn’t heard it all long since; Rap had tried to
tell him often enough. “We can talk as we go. It’s long enough to
last till Zark. “

“What
next?” Gathmor heaved himself up stiffly. “We going to get on our
way? “

Rap’s
farsight nudged him, and he turned to stare at the watcher on the bank. Where
had he come from?

He
did not seem worrisome. He was standing on a fallen log and smiling shyly,
although the smile was partly hidden by his hand-he had a finger up his nose. A
gnome’s nose was not much more than two holes in his face.

The
scrap of rag around his loins was filthy beyond belief, and too tattered to
serve its purpose; the natural mud color of his skin was visible only where
sweat streaks had loosened flakes of dirt. Rap was sorry to discover that his
sharp new farsight could detect the teeming multitudes within the odious tangle
of the boy’s hair. His head would have reached to Rap’s navel; he
was about thirteen, maybe, depending on how fast gnomes aged. The only clean
places on him were two very gorgeous, bronzetinted eyes.

Seeing
he had the men’s attention, he grinned more broadly and beckoned with his
free hand. Then he jumped off his log and ran in among the trees.

Darad
lurched to his feet, with Gathmor right behind him. They plowed across the pond
in twin tidal waves, heedless of Rap’s shouts.

It
took a great effort of Will and was only possible because his farsight still
kept the boy in sight, but Rap managed to go the other way first and grab up
five of the six wooden sandals. He wanted the sixth and the gowns, too, but the
urgency of the summons became unbearable and tore him away. He ran around the
pond on bare feet and followed the others.

In
that overgrown riot of jungle, the tiny gnome boy had all the advantages. He
could squeeze through bamboo thickets. He could roll or crawl under walls of
thorns that three naked men dare not approach, or scurry like a beetle over
marsh that would swallow them to the shoulders. He was fast and nimble and
occultly inexhaustible. His powers included some means of telling direction,
for he held to a straight course, and he never drew so far ahead that the chase
seemed impossible. Always, his pursuers must believe that another two minutes
would do it, and when they flagged from total exhaustion he laughed, and his
laugh had some occult power also, for it drove the men on again like red-hot
whips.

Rap
easily caught up with his companions and handed over the sandals. He himself
went barefoot, and soon they were all doing so, trying to gain speed.

His
greatest problem was staying in contact with the others. He could easily have
left them far behind, and the craving to do so gnawed at him like a starved
rat. Darad had an occult warrior’s strength, of course, and could keep up
the pace and stand the punishment much better than poor Gathmor, who was only
human and very soon exhausted. Rap took his hand and hauled him along, and
their compromise pace was about what Darad could manage.

Eventually,
as the hours passed and the young gnome led them up into the hills, jungle
faded into parkland, and parkland into moor, giving welcome relief from the
whipping and slashing of undergrowth. By nightfall, though, the chase was over
rocky ground that chopped at feet like knives. Unable to rest for a moment,
still staggering along after the gaily skipping gnome with his bewitching laugh
and his beautiful eyes, Rap and his friends climbed ever higher between the
barren peaks, and the muttering of dragons was very close.

Man’s
worth something:

No,
when the fight begins within himself,

A
man’s worth something.

Browning,
Bishop Blougram’s Apology

Life And Death

The
Thume side of the mountains was a moister, kinder land than the desert to the
east, with rich grass swaying underfoot and foliage-filled sky overhead. The
air was friendly, heavy with woodsy scents. Inos could not identify the forest
giants themselves, but among them she recognized some of the smaller,
cultivated varieties she had seen in Arakkaran-citrus trees and olives, running
wild. So whatever had destroyed the ancient folk of Thume had spared their
orchards. She approved of fruit trees; unlike most others, they did something
useful.

But
she soon began to appreciate that even the others could be helpful. They cast
shade, and shade discouraged undergrowth. The mules’ little hooves
swished through tall ferns, thumped softly on loam or moss. There was no
obvious road, but the green tunnels of the woods were mostly quite passable,
leading from time to time out into grassy clearings that reminded her oddly of
the tiny sunlit courtyards of Krasnegar. In the meadows, of course, the sun was
fierce, but on the far side there was always shade again, more gloom-filled
hallways pillared with massive trunks that fanned out overhead into rafters,
cross-braced with thin shafts of light. She knew the spruce of the taiga and
she had seen hardwood forest near Kinvale, but nothing so magical as this.

For
a long while the three invaders rode in silence. Kade was still
uncharacteristically downcast, and Inos could only conclude that the uncanny
encounter with the petrified army still weighed on her mind. She was old; any
reminder of death must seem morbid to a woman of her years, but Kade would
certainly spring back soon.

Azak
was tense, vigilant, his eyes never still. Not wishing to distract him with
conversation, Inos let herself become caught up in the birdsong. A steady flow
of it filled the woods like musical rainbows. Once in a very long while she
would see a tiny shape flash away; mostly the singers stayed out of sight and
emptied their souls in chorus and counterpoint. A thousand years we have
practiced, they said, waiting for someone to return and hear our song. Welcome!
Welcome! Welcome!

Harness
creaked and jingled, but the spongy ground muffled the mules’ tread. At
times the river made itself heard, chattering busily off to the left somewhere,
telling the way, promising it would lead them to its bigger brother and that
together they would venture to the sea.

The
beauty of the morning was a balm to all fears, pure gold. Nowhere could seem
less accursed than this.

The
approach of noon lessened the birds’ symphony, and Azak was the first to
become talkative, as he began to relax. He pointed out some of what his tracker’s
eyes were seeing-ancient traces of buildings and trails, animal tracks and how
old they were. Those scats were from a wild dog; domestic dogs’ were less
tapered. The bark of trees bore ravages of woodpeckers, the rubbing of antlers,
old claw marks of bears.

“You
didn’t learn all this in the desert!” Inos said accusingly.
Blood-red eyes twinkled. “In the mountains, the Agonistes. When I was
small.”

If
that was a hint of some personal history she did not know of, he failed to add
to it. He went back to the wildlife. Deer and goats for certain, he said, and
probably wild cattle.