Sea of Death (15 page)

Obmi's attitude about the place was in conflict with all the obvious facts. "This is no real city," he observed petulantly. It was obvious that the dwarf belittled Karnoosh for one simple reason. Men, not demi-humans – and in particular, not dwarves – dominated it. In the whole of the city, there were not more than a half-dozen of his own kind. In fact, there were so few of any nonhuman sort here that even Bolt was amazed. An easterner like Obmi, he had long been accustomed to encountering at least a fair number of nonhumans in any city or large town. Even in the western cities of Hlupallu and Ghastoor, they had seen enough dwarves and elves so that neither Obmi nor Bolt felt terribly out of place. But out here on the steppes, such was not the case.

Here there were males and females with deep brown, dusky, swarthy, tan, yellow, or reddish hues to their skin. There were short men and women, tall ones, stocky folk and lean. Some had small noses, others beaks. They looked different from one another, but with few exceptions they were all humans. These folk lived and worked together in harmony of a sort, at least bound to each other by their common racial heritage, but they did not consider elves, dwarves, or the like as their equals.

So, instead of desiring to linger in this exotic city as he had wanted to do in both Hlupallu and Ghastoor, Obmi demanded to leave Karnoosh as quickly as possible. This edict placed a terrific strain on Bolt, for the sorcerer had to gather more equipment and supplies, see that all was properly packed and loaded, and all the while make certain that no spy discovered what was taking place. It required four days for Bolt to handle all the details, but then the dwarfs group was away from Karnoosh, going along the southeast track that followed the lake's edge for more than seventy miles before splintering into three smaller trails heading in different directions of the compass. They led their carts and wagons, horses and mules along the smallest of the three paths, the center one that led south toward the town of Tashbul and then east and south into the Grandsuel Peaks.

"Tashbul will provide all the rest of what we need," Obmi told Bolt smugly, even though he himself did not know the whole truth of the matter, for he was aware that the sorcerer had no knowledge of this part of the west, and Obmi had picked up some intelligence on the subject back in Kamoosh. Although even most sages and savants of the Flanaess could boast no great store of knowledge on the subject at hand, the sorcerer's ignorance was a tool the dwarf enjoyed using against Bolt.

"You are most learned, lord," Bolt replied with a touch of sourness evident in his tone.

Obmi basked in the glow of this grudgingly given praise. This verge of the old Baklunish Empire, my dear Bolt, still retains some small vestiges of the once-great culture lost in the Invoked Devastation. They are a decadent people, but interesting nonetheless, and they will understand our needs."

"I bow to your wisdom, lord," the sorcerer murmured, vowing to do his best to return the favor at the first opportunity.

Between five and six days later they arrived in Tashbul, found suitable lodgings, and set about the final preparations before entering the Ashen Desert. This city was as devoid of nonhumans as Karnoosh had been, but here Obmi and his ilk were looked upon more as a novelty to be enjoyed than a lesser to be shunned. The dwarf actually had a good time, in his sense of the term, during a week of debauchery in the ancient town. But then it was time to be on his way. Bolt had spent his stay in the town acting under more of Obmi's orders, seeking out some personnel and materials they still needed, enlarging and reorganizing the train, and generally doing his utmost to see that all would go as planned. He was tired, frazzled, and near his wits' end when the day arrived for departure, but he had accomplished everything he was responsible for.

The journey from Tashbul to the mountain pass that would lead them through the Grandsuels to the desolation of the old Suel lands was relatively quiet. But then, after covering a little more than ninety miles in six days across grassland and then again over dry ground, they came to the place where the guides Bolt had hired in Tashbul would take over, leading them through the mountains. The pass was winding, steep, and treacherous. To traverse a distance of twenty-five leagues as the crow might fly, they had to go twice that far overland, following the rocky path that was the only sure route between the crags. The journey was even more difficult because of die carts that were necessary to haul the equipment Obmi needed, but after more than two weeks of climbing, carrying, and stumbling through the rocks, the party made its way to the place where barren rock gave way to the vast stretch of dust and ash that rolled away to the south, east, and west as far as the keenest eye could see.

Most of the party turned back now. The mountain guides, of course, were not needed any longer. Likewise, the caretakers of the carts did not have to go farther, because the carts themselves had served their purpose. Before the majority of the group left to head back north, artisans assembled the stuff that the carts had brought through the mountains. They worked day and night while Obmi brooded and paced, occasionally overseeing the work but more often simply waiting out the delay inside his tent. At sunrise of the second day since the group had camped, Bolt came to Obmi at the end of his master's morning meal and gently led him outside.

There she is, Lord Obmi – faithfully recreated from the drawings I obtained in Ghastoor," said the sorcerer, making no attempt to conceal his pride.

The object that the sorcerer pointed to was a shiplike device that rested on four great tubes. These cylindrical wheels were made of the skins of grubs, immature giant beetles that were native to the lush, semitropical valleys that lay west of Tashbul. These, along with the pieces of the dismantled craft, had been carted from that city to the edge of the Ashen Desert to form a unique mode of transport across the waste. The skins were cut to the proper shapes, then laboriously sewn together, and the seams were sealed by heat before the cylinders were inflated with bellows. The body of the vehicle, its shape resembling that of a seagoing vessel, was filled with stores of provisions and equipment. Even though the group that would travel across the desert included a cleric who would be able to supply magical provisionings, it was wise to carry real food and water in case something should befall the man. The vehicle had a single large sail, as yet not raised. The whole thing was a sight that was at once incongruous yet quite logical, considering the "sea" over which it would be traveling.

During the group's sojourn in Ghastoor, Bolt had managed to find some very helpful information – a treatise on an expedition into the Ashen Desert carried out more than a century ago by an adventurous savant. This brave fellow recorded his travels in the desolation and gave detailed drawings of the vessel he used to accomplish his long journey from the western side of the Inferno Peaks along the edge of the Grandsuels. This bold savant had found ruined cities along his route, managed to discover the mountain kingdom of Zufon, and eventually make his way back to his own home again.

From the drawings and information he discovered, Bolt worked hard to not only duplicate the savant's feat but also to learn all he could about what the journey held in store. Survival was foremost, knowledge second. Even if he did not eventually become the leader due to some mistake made by the dwarf – and there would be plenty of opportunity for that in the vast and hostile basin of ash – then at worst the sorcerer could claim the accolades for providing the vehicle that brought success to the champion of the demoness. Obmi, of course, would derogate any contribution of his, but Bolt knew he was clever enough to be given credit when the time was ripe. He was not, after all, shy.

"You are certain, sorcerer, that the winds will propel this device?"

"The hot breezes always come from the east, great dwarf. I have sighted on the stars, and we are at the same degree of longitude as the place we seek – directly north of the buried ruins. The wind will try to drive us away to the west, but by steering carefully, we will travel southward, on course, just as a ship would navigate the ocean. In two weeks, three at the outside, we will see the broken spires of the City Out of Mind thrusting upward from their shroud of ash."

"So you say. We will set forth, then, and we will see how accurate your pronouncement is." Obmi signaled, and his dozen men clambered aboard the vessel. Some of their number were familiar with how watercraft worked, and they would teach the others how to rig, set, and furl the great sail. Unlike a waterborne ship, this craft was steered from its prow, and the dwarf went there to seat himself beside the pilot. When he was comfortably at ease, Obmi gave a signal, and the lateen-rigged sail was hoisted. Even though the wind was not brisk this day, the canvas bellied out, and the rigging creaked and hummed. In moments they began to roll across the powdery stuff of the Ashen Desert, the man beside Obmi straining to keep the steering roller canted so that the wind-powered vessel stayed on a southerly heading. "Good," the dwarf murmured to himself when he was convinced that the vessel would in fact move. "Failure is unacceptable – and had Bolt been mistaken, his failure would have been mine." While thinking about how he would have to carefully keep watching the clever and ambitious sorcerer, Obmi leaned back to enjoy the ride.

"I AM SURE I can use this," the slender half-elf said as she finished stringing the short, recurved bow. "Name a target, and I will hit it!"

Gord was impressed by how easily the girl had readied the weapon for use, for the rather short Yoli bow was a compound of horn, sinew, and wood that was hard to bend. He turned his gaze to the terrain ahead of them, and after a moment said, There are three gazelles grazing in that thicket – see? Slightly to your left, about one hundred yards away, Leda."

As the girl nocked an arrow and drew the shaft back smoothly so that the fletching just touched her cheek, her arm trembled for just an instant, but then the steel point held steady. Leda released the arrow, and it shot out in an arc that was almost impossible to follow. One of the animals sprang into the air a couple of seconds later, and then all three began bounding away. There!" she cried happily. "You and I shall have dinner now."

"I fear not, Leda. Don't you see them running?"

"Of course, Gord, but the one I hit won't go far. Come on!" The half-elven girl leaped into the saddle of her horse and galloped away in the direction the gazelles had taken. Gord was atop Windeater a moment later, and before long was beside the girl. "Have a care! This ground is too rough to ride across at such a pace!" he called to her.

Leda only snickered and urged her mount to greater speed. The steppe-bred horse that bore her was swift, but it was not a match for Gord's courser, and she knew it. It was exciting to gallop along like this, however, and laughing with the thrill of the race, Leda did her best to win the contest by choosing the worst course so that sheer speed would not prevail. Even though she was not highly skilled at riding, the half-elven girl was daring and athletic, so what she lacked in ability she made up for in aggressiveness. "Catch me if you can, slowpoke!" she shouted back over her shoulder.

Gord had checked his stallion so he could observe Leda as she rode. This was dangerous work, and the young adventurer was fearful that she would come to grief. Still, he knew by now that trying to call off the race was useless, so his only recourse was to slow Windeater so that Leda's own horse would not compete with the stallion, and stay close behind, just in case. They covered about four hundred yards thus, and then Gord spotted the dead gazelle at the same instant that she pointed to it. "You win!" he shouted to her. "I see the kill!"

Leda slowed her horse, jumped off when it stopped several yards away from the quarry, and ran to where the gazelle lay. "I shot it, Gord, so you must skin and dress it for supper," she told him gleefully as he stumped up beside her.

Grumbling in mock displeasure, the young man complied. Soon he had the task completed, and the two made a little camp. It was already late afternoon, and this was a good place to spend the night.

"What troubles you, girl?" Gord asked after he and Leda had finished a fine meal of game and wild berries. She had stopped speaking a while ago and was now staring moodily into the little flames of the dying bonfire.

"Have you ever heard of a tribe called Al Crevad?" she asked in reply to his query.

"No, but I am no expert on the west, Leda. Why do you ask?"

"I am troubled by the whole situation, Gord – wouldn't you be? When you rescued me a week ago, I thought my loss of memory was only a temporary thing, a fault of the fall and no more. Leda is a nice name, and I like it, but it doesn't seem quite right."

Gord smiled reassuringly at her. "Come on, girl! A week is not sufficient time to fully recover from such a nasty fall as that, you know. In a few more days your memory will come back."

"Gord, I hope you are right, but I am uneasy about the matter. Who am I? Why was I riding with a group of Yoli to Karnoosh? Where are my people? You and I both know that this is not a land where elves roam, yet I am surely half-elven. It all seems wrong, very wrong!"

Gord had to agree in his heart, but he wasn't about to reveal his doubts to the girl. "Leda* I think the answer lies in Ghastoor. The caravan was coming from there when the Arroden struck. I still think you should have let me take you back there."

"And delay your mission? How could I? If it is as important as you have told me – and I know you are speaking whole truth, Gord – it would be unthinkable for me to put myself above your duty." The young man started to speak, but the half-elven girl hushed him, adding in a gently scolding tone, "Besides, as I have told you before, I have some deep conviction that I too must go southward; that is probably why I was with the Yoli caravan to begin with. There is a vague sense somewhere within my mind, a feeling that I am needed for some purpose that lies to the south – just as you are."

"There are strange and unknown forces at work in this matter, Leda," Gord said seriously, "and it is possible that you are an agent of one, just as I am. I was doubtful about you at first, I admit. When I saw how well you managed a sword and dagger, I was only slightly less so. Now that we have spent a week traveling across these arid plains, Leda, I am becoming convinced of your ability to survive, and your need to press on with me." The young man paused for a minute, thinking. "I do agree with you," he continued. "You – we – must do all we can to bring your memory back. If you are a part of this business, there must be knowledge hidden in your mind that will aid us in winning through."

Leda replied as earnestly. "Yes, Gord, I know. That's why I asked about the Al Crevad – the name just came to me, unbidden. Perhaps the tribal name is El Cravad… well, no matter. I think I am… from a secret tribe of folk who keep their presence hidden from the savage nomads around them. I… we… are a careful folk who must always be alert, for there are enemies out on the plains around us. Yes!" she said excitedly. "I am sure of that. Perhaps I am from the mountains to the south, the very place we are going! I know those peaks are the Grandsuels, and the thought of mountains seems sort of comforting to me, like home."

"Good. This could mean that you are slowly recovering. And a solid night of sleep will help you, I'm sure. You turn in now, Leda, and I'll stand watch. When it's dawn, I'll rouse you to break camp and make some breakfast. I'll grab an hour's sleep then, and then doze in the saddle as we travel. I've become used to living that way," he said matter-of-factly. "Besides, I can catnap and feel refreshed," he finished, smiling at his own joke.

After a half-hearted protest against such coddling treatment, Leda rolled herself in her burnous and seemed to fall asleep instantly. Gord went off a bit from the fire and began his silent patrol around the outcropping they were camped by. They had covered a lot of ground since the night he had pulled the girl free from beneath her dead horse.

Windeater had found no difficulty in carrying the two of them away from the area of the battle, but it was a good thing the steed did not have to be taxed this way for long. At dawn the next morning they had come across a saddled horse grazing peacefully beside its dead rider. The animal accepted the half-elven girl readily, and the arms of the dead Yoli provided her with the wherewithal to protect herself. The dead warrior was a smallish man, and Leda put on his armor as naturally as if she had been a veteran fighter herself. She had likewise picked up the fallen man's weapons and tested them with a show of such experience at handling scimitar and dagger that Gord was convinced the girl was no soft courtesan or noble lady.

"Just who and what are you?" he asked her then.

The question stunned the girl, and she nearly collapsed from distress when she realized that she was unable to answer. "I… I… don't know!" she cried. "What's wrong with me? Trying to think of my name, who I am, where I come from – it makes my head hurt and my stomach twist." She reeled as she said that, and Gord had to rush and grab her to keep the girl from toppling over in a faint.

"Never mind that now," he told her reassuringly as he helped her to sit down. "Enough for now that you are alive. Memory will come soon enough."

That day he had suggested names as they rode along. When he began on names that started with the letter L, she had seemed more interested than before, so when Gord came to Leda, a name he personally liked, she had agreed that it sounded right – at least until she could recall her real name.

In the intervening days, Gord had kept trying to help her remember about herself, but the process was strange and slow. Leda seemed to be able to draw upon ingrained abilities to do what she had to do – handle weapons, ride a horse, shoot a bow. It was unsettling, though, that her memory of each skill made her uneasy even as it pleased her to recall information. The name "Leda" pleased her and bothered her at the same time – she said the word like it was an echo of her real name. At first, using the dead warrior's arms seemed to provoke stirrings that gave her a headache, as if the familiarity was trying to evoke another memory. Even riding made the half-elf uneasy at times.

"You are the strongest part-elf I have ever seen, Leda," he had remarked once. She got angry at the remark, seeming to take special exception to the phrase "part-elf," although she admitted later she didn't know why this happened. "Your pardon, girl, but I have met many elves and half-elven folk in my travels," Gord went on. "Even the dark-haired sort have fair skins. The elves of the west must indeed be of unique sort, with such a deeply tanned complexion and pale hair as you have."

"As a child of two races, Gord," she had said crossly, "could it not be that I inherited my dark skin from the Bakluni?"

"You have neither the olive cast nor the bold nose of the Baklunish folk… but I suppose it could be. You do look more elven than human at that!" Then they had spoken of other things, and no more was said about the subject.

Now, as he mulled over recent words and events, it seemed likely to Gord that Leda was right about her heritage, for she did ply the Bakluni weapons with skill, as her bowshot the previous afternoon had demonstrated. In any case, Gord was happy to have her company. Not only was she very lovely, but Leda was able and lent strength to this mission. Until this night she had been taking her turn on sentry duty as staunchly as any man, and her elven eyesight was most useful in the dark.

The usual nocturnal carnivores prowled the land as Gord stood guard, but no animal was so fierce that the little fire, a bit of noise, or a well-aimed stone from his sling didn't discourage it.

As the eastern sky became faintly light, Gord went to where the half-elven girl slept. She awoke at his slight touch, and in minutes she was on guard and Gord fast asleep. Leda let him doze longer than he had wanted to, for she felt they could easily spare another hour or so. Then she knelt beside him and gently poked him In the ribs.

"Come on, sleepy man!" she said boisterously. The sun is up two hours now, and you are still abed! Food is ready, and the horses saddled. Refresh yourself, eat, and then we can be on our way."

Gord rolled over and was just starting to get to his feet when his eyes spotted several specks on the northern horizon. At the same time he was drawing Leda's attention to the sight, Gord was up and arming himself, all of his fatigue dissolved in a flood of adrenaline. Both of them mounted their horses and stood in the stirrups to gain a better perspective. Four – no, five – riders were coming toward their encampment at a trot. They were in a good place to defend themselves, for the rocky outcropping and brush provided both cover and concealment. Leda set out the eight arrows she had remaining in her quiver, and Gord selected from his belt pouch a dozen good stones for his sling.

"I'll hail them at a distance, and see if we can parlay," he told the girl. "If they are hostile, or prove treacherous, send your shafts at the one with whom I speak, for he will be the leader."

Leda nodded and returned to checking her bowstring, bow, and arrows. The best of the shafts were set for first use, for the shots would be the longest. This would change if a battle occurred, so the arrows with poor feathers or a slightly warped shaft would serve for close work. "Good luck, Gord," she called as he climbed up onto the outcropping to make himself seen to the approaching warriors.

The burnoused men immediately slowed their mounts from a trot to a walk when Gord stood up on the spur of rock and raised one hand. He remained motionless like that for a minute as they continued to advance abreast. At about three hundred yards distance, the five horsemen stopped their advance and gathered momentarily for a conference. Then one of their number broke away from the cluster and came forward, keeping his horse to a slow walk and holding the point of his lance skyward. Hoping to impress the visitors, Gord jumped down from the jutting stone, a distance of about twelve or so feet to the dry grass below. He landed, rolled once, regained his feet, and began jogging toward the lone warrior, all in a single fluid motion.

The nomad stood in his stirrups as the young adventurer came toward him, staring at him because of the unusual activity he had just demonstrated. As Gord approached to within twenty yards, the nomad dipped his lance toward the young man, indicating that he had better come no closer. "I am Achulka aka Saufghi of the Al Illa-Thuffi," the stranger shouted. "Who are you, outlander?"

"Those who name me comrade have called me Pharzool," Gord replied.

"Do any Arroden name you?"

"Perhaps from the Hells," the young adventurer retorted, and spat as he did so.

The nomad stared hard at Gord's necklace – the Arroden trinket with the silver bracelets adorning it that he had acquired during his solitary attack upon the veiled warriors. "You took those silver bands from the veiled men?" asked the nomad.

Gord plucked absently at the necklace and dangling bracelets, never taking his eyes from the horseman before him. "Well, I had many more than this under my blade," he said with a straight face, "but I took only these few things as souvenirs."

Achulka raised the long lance he held upright, so that its yellow-tufted tip was far above Gord's head. Then, with a slow and careful motion, he turned the weapon to a point-down position and sunk the steel head into the earth beside his leg. At the sight of this, his four fellows began to ride slowly ahead. "We now speak as not-enemies, Farzeel the Outlander. You may tell your comrades this, for we would not wish fighting by mistake."