Fane (v1.0), page 18
“Who’s in charge of preparing this wretched salad?” she demanded, waving the bowl under Cockle’s nose. “Was it you, or was it one of these filthy Grays?” she asked the startled overseer.
“Me? No. It was one of the Grays, of course. What is the problem, madam? If they’ve done anything wrong I’ll flay the fur from their backs.”
“Are you intoxicated?” Mara asked the frightened Cockle.
“Intoxicated? Me? Why, madam, no, of course…”
“Never mind. I’ll handle this myself. You, was it you who made the salad?” Mara asked, pointing at one of the Ajaj. “Perhaps it was you; you look guilty to me. You, old one,” she said, pointing at Buster. “Are you responsible for this outrage?”
Buster limped forward slowly and peeked over the edge of Mara’s outstretched bowl. There slowly inching its way across one of the oil-covered leaves was a bright green worm.
“Yes, my lady. Don’t blame the others; I am the one responsible. Master Cockle had nothing to do with it.”
“There, you see, madam, it was the old crippled one who did it. Rest assured I’ll punish him well for this. You leave it to me.”
“Leave it to you! You can barely stand up without holding on to something. I’ll handle this myself—unless of course you prefer that I report to Lord Hazar directly?”
“Oh, no, madam, that’s not necessary. Take the old fool and do with him what you will—although I would appreciate it if you would return Him in sufficient health to work for his dinner.”
“Don’t tell me how to handle a Gray. Obviously you coddle these Ajaj outrageously. I have a few chores in mind and a method of punishment all my own, so you keep your prying eyes away from my powers.”
“Yes, madam, of course, madam. Take him and do as you please.”
Mara stalked out of the refectory and imperiously waved Buster to follow her. Castor stared after Buster’s limping frame. Cockle startled Castor from his reverie with a kick in the rump.
“Back to work, you lazy, good-for-nothing beast. You’ve got to clean all of this up and start dinner. Back to work, back to work.”
The crew was now shorthanded. Cockle, being forced to run his own kitchen for a change, was denied the soothing pleasures of wine and illusion plant and so became more disagreeable than usual. For the next three hours Castor was kept too busy to worry about Buster’s fate. Finally, at half past the eighth hour, the old Gray limped down the steps. He panted loudly; and his legs were obviously sore from great exertion. Cockle greeted him with a buffet to the backside and an order to take over the .preparation of the evening meal. With a satisfied grunt, Cockle hoisted himself on his stool and gulped down a hearty cup of wine.
As unobtrusively as possible Castor worked his way over to where Buster directed the kitchen helpers’ labors. When the other Ajaj had been sent out upon their tasks he tried to speak to him without success. Instead the Gray began to give him new orders.
“The scraps must be taken out; in my absence this place has become an absolute mess. You, Castor, you look to be the strongest of the lot. Clean all those leavings into the buckets and carry them out to the receptacle. What’s the matter? Why are you standing there? Don’t you know where the container is?”
Castor stood mute, too surprised by the command to speak.
“Well, if you don’t know, it’s about time you learned.
Come on, now; clean those up; fill the buckets. I will take you outside and show you.”
Castor gathered up a supply of peelings, scraps, pan scrapings, grease, and the like. Buster in the lead, they trudged up the steps and into the alley alongside the kitchen. As the young Ajaj overturned the buckets into the bin Buster looked suspiciously this way and that. When he was sure that no others were nearby he whispered into Castor’s ear: “Did you mean what you said before about fighting back?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Are you willing to do something to help? Do you have the courage to take the risk, perhaps even be killed without achieving your purpose?”
“If there is a good chance of doing the Gogols some harm I’m for it.”
“Very well; I must trust you. If you are a spy or a traitor to our people I am already dead. So be it. Lord Nefra and Lord Hazar are at odds, this I have already told you, but there is .more. Hazar’s enchantress Mara, the woman who accosted me this afternoon, has beguiled Lord Zaco into delivering to Hazar fifty bloodstones.”
“What are—”
“Quiet! Empty the garbage and don’t talk. The bloodstone is the human equivalent of our source gems. They are of great power. Zaco obtains them from a mine in the mountains west of the headwaters of the Mephisto River. With these gems Hazar and his allies will be invincible. First they will sweep across the Guardian Mountains. In league with traitors in the Hartford midst they will destroy the Hartford wizards and establish their own sycophants in control of the human lands. Next Hazar will return in triumph and overwhelm all the Gogol empire with his powers. If he succeeds he will be the supreme ruler of this world. Zaco is a senile old fool and, beguiled as he is by Mara, he does not understand the significance of the stones Hazar has ordered. ^
“The other lords know something of Hazar’s plans but except for Nefra are too weak, too indebted to Hazar, or too allied with him in the project to oppose his plans. Nefra is not so foolish. He realizes that Hazar’s success is his own failure. Nefra has a plan involving Mara and myself and such other Gray conspirators as I may locate—a scheme which might topple Hazar before his attack can begin.”
“You want me to help Nefra the Cruel? He is as bad as Hazar, if not worse.”
‘
“If we do nothing, Hazar wins and conquers the world. If we help Nefra, Hazar loses and life goes on as before. I count that as a victory for our people. We must return now. Tell me quickly, will you help?”
Castor hesitated a fraction of a second. “What must I do?”
“I am to prepare a special meal for Hazar. His tasters will find nothing; his spells will reveal no poison, at first After he has begun to eat, the proper incantation will effect change as the food lies in his stomach. Shortly thereafter—death!”
“He will never let us get close enough to him to cast such a spell,” Castor whispered as they approached the scullery door.
‘“We Grays, no; but Lady Mara, perhaps. As soon as possible I will send you out beyond the tumbles to hunt for herbs, the special plants which I need to brew the poison.”
“Do you think she will actually do it, against one of her own?” Castor whispered as he slid open the scullery door.
“That is the question, but no point in wondering. In a few days we’ll know for sure.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Mile after mile Grantin and Chom trudged through the depths of Grenitch Wood. At the end of the second day they camped at the base of an immense ironwood tree, some two thirds of the way through the forest. The next morning they would break from the wood’s western edge and enter the Weirdlands, an area about which Grantin’s stolen map gave only the sketchiest information.
That night they slept uneasily and, mindful of Hans’s warning, started nervously at the sounds of nearby beasts and birds. As soon as Pyra had risen high enough to penetrate the forest canopy, Grantin and Chom arose and took up a fast pace which they hoped would bring them through the Weirdlands by sundown. The exertion of the previous days had toughened Grantin. This morning he noticed that the aches and pains which previously had plagued him now seemed to be dissipating. For the first time he did not have to strain to keep up with Chom.
By lunchtime the forest had begun to thin. The terrain became more uneven, often displaying alternately ridges, then deep-cut gullies. It was clear that the land was becoming more rocky, less fertile. Small crumbling cliffs appeared, the edges of the formations displaying bright orange shale. The sun passed over the travelers’ heads and as they neared the edge of the forest began to slant into their eyes.
“Chom, are you sure you’ve never heard any rumors about the Weirdlands?”
“None at all. All I know is what you read from Shenar’s map.”
“The map! A mess of hen scratchings and obscure names: the Twisted Reef, Shrinking Monster Gulch, Domino Grove, Mirror Scarp—what’s all that supposed to mean?”
< Sensing that the question was rhetorical, Chom made no reply other than to slightly accelerate their pace.
Near the sixth hour the trail descended into a gorge where it paralleled a shallow, swift-running stream. The walls on either side were composed of red sand and shale. The stream exuded a sulfurous mineral smell. Ahead the course bore first to the right, then the left; then, as it turned right again, the walls fell away to reveal a peculiar vista.
Water tumbled over a small falls fifteen feet in height at the base of which was a wide brown basalt pan. From there the stream meandered aimlessly in a hundred random channels to a stony meadow where its course was lost from sight To the left of the rocky plain began a field of boulders and shattered stone. Beyond the meadow the ground heaved and turned into a field of grotesque shapes. Grantin and Chom descended to the base of the waterfall across the rock ledge and meadow, there to halt in wonder at the eerie landscape beyond.
Jn all directions arose pinnacles, chimneys, towers, cones, and rocky protrusions. Their colors varied as widely as their shapes: mug green, deep purple, gray, black, rust red, and sandy ocher. Between these nests of stone lay a labyrinth of passages, tunnels, and trails. Grantin and Chom contemplated the barrier with sinking hearts.
“How wide do you think that is?” Grantin asked.
“Look again at the map and see if it gives a clue.” Grantin slipped off his pack and removed a cylindrical roll of stiff paper. Carefully he spread it on the ground, using a small stone at each corner to hold it flat.
“As far as I can tell we’re about here,” he said, indicating a point at the western edge of Grenitch Wood a fourth of the way from its northern border. “Could this be the Twisted Reef? The map is not exactly to scale, but it must be at least a league wide. What do you think?”
“Once lost in there we could wander forever. Still, perhaps we could find our way by reference to the sun or stars.”
“I don’t suppose we have much choice, do we? Let’s get started, then, while the sun’s still high enough to follow.”
Chom seemed not to hear Grantin’s remarks. Instead he concentrated on the reef. When Grantin started to walk forward, Chom’s lower arm gently grabbed his wrist.
“Wait—it is not what it seems. I detect subtle magic beyond. There are more than natural forces to contend with there. I suspect the Weirdlands were deliberately created by the Gogols as a barrier to keep their people from escaping into Grenitch Wood and through the mountain passes beyond. Let us make a test.” From the side pocket of his tunic Chom brought forth a small hank of translucent string. “Tie this to your belt,” he directed Grantin as he gave him the end of the thread.
Grantin quickly secured the line, then struck off into the pinnacles. He found the going surprisingly easy and penetrated the first hundred yards without difficulty. Though he endeavored to keep the sun always in front of him, occasionally it would slip behind a tower. Then he would be forced to circle the obstacle in order to get it back in sight.
Often the sun appeared in an unexpected quadrant of the sky, opposite from the point where Grantin had expected it. Whenever this happened he reluctantly turned from his planned course and headed again in Pyra’s direction.
Without warning he was yanked to a stop. Had the thread run out already? Carefully Grantin turned around and backtracked along the string, winding it as he went. To his amazement he discovered a zigzag, twisted course, one which in fact crossed itself several times from different directions. It was a trail that might have been left by a blind, drunken snake. Carefully Grantin retraced his steps until at last with a sigh of relief he emerged from the edge of the reef to see Chom standing twenty yards ahead of him.
“It is impossible,” he reported when he returned. “I ran in circles. We would starve to death before we reached the other side. I had better look at the map again.” Grantin again laid out the parchment and tried to detect an alternative course. “A league or so to the north this shading might indicate the boundary of the Twisted Reef. There, to the north, along the length of the reef, seems to run the Shrinking Monster Gulch. What do you think?”
“It is no worse than sitting here.”
Gran tin and Chom paced northward along the ragged edge where the meadow joined the reef. From within the rock labyrinth sounds erupted, as if the stone pillars captured faint noises and amplified them by their passage. As they neared the northern edge of the reef, the scratching clatter of a group of Rex lizards trotting across stony ground could be heard. A few times Grantin even thought he heard garbled human voices. Once he detected the muffled words “…up ahead.” Yon Diggery and his band had reached the pinnacles.
Grantin and Chom accelerated their pace. Shortly a ravine barred their way. The gulch appeared to be forty or fifty feet deep, with steep but not unclimbable sides. At the bottom the ground was smooth and broken by a trickle of muddy water. The edge of the gorge merged precipitously with the northern boundary of the reef.
Remaining in the lead, Chom moved to the border of the pinnacles.
“Not in there; we can make twice as much time by following the gorge,” Grantin hissed.
“The bandits are mounted and have the advantage over us on flat ground. If we stay to the edge of the reef they will have to abandon their Rexes and come on foot. It is our only chance if we want to avoid a fight.”
The clatter of the lizards* claws now sounded clearly from the near distance. With no time for further discussion Grantin jogged past Chom and entered the twisted reef. Standing sideways, facing the ravine, they inched along, careful not to pass more than two or three feet from its edge for fear of becoming hopelessly lost.
Behind them Grantin and Chom heard the voices of Yon Diggery’s men. “They can’t be far ahead of us; let’s run them down,” Diggery’s Lieutenant Dukey shouted as he urged his mount down the trail into the gulch.
Grantin and Chom peeked around the edge of a jutting chimney to watch Dukey descend into the gulch. The bandit rode the lizard at full speed, yet his progress seemed slower than expected. As his eyes focused on Dukey’s form Grantin’s perspective pitched and changed. The farther the bandit progressed, the deeper the ravine became. Whether the gulch was hundreds of times deeper than it appeared or the rider shrank by degrees as he descended Grantin could not tell. It soon became obvious, however, that though he might ride for days Dukey still would not reach the bottom. The reason for the barrier’s name was now clear.
Sounds issued from the eastern edge of the reef: clicks, snaps, and thuds as Yon Diggery and his remaining men entered the labyrinth on foot. With a new urgency Grantin and Chom resumed their frenzied sidelong flight.
At the end of the seventh hour they reached the western edge of the reef. From the sounds of the pursuit Yon Diggery was no more than five or ten minutes behind. To the southwest a trail stretched away from the reef across a meadow and into a twinkling yellow-red field beyond, the Mirror Scarp, Grantin decided. What could it be? Fields of mica-covered boulders, plains of silvered rock—another labyrinth in which they would be hopelessly lost, if not cooked by Pyra’s reflected light? Directly ahead and to the northeast a second trail cut across the rolling meadow which a half mile in the distance ascended a gentle, forested slope to terminate at a thousand-yard-high rocky ridge.
’That must be Domino Grove,” Grantin panted. “To the right is the gorge, to the left the scarp. At least in front of us the view is nice. If I am going to die I prefer it be under as pleasant circumstances as possible.”
Chom made no reply but docilely followed the human’s lead. Here, too, the perspective was deceiving. The ground became marshy and the travelers were limited to a narrow rocky ledge which crossed the swamp. Tall pea-green trees grew in copses at the edge of the trail.
Slowly the character of the land continued to change. The clumps of swamp grass grew taller. The stalky trees became more common. By nightfall Chom and Grantin found themselves in a thick forest. In the gloom of night further travel became impossible. The bushes and trees screened them from their pursuers. At last they straggled to a halt. Grantin pronounced an impromptu spell of protection. In theory, if anyone crossed an imaginary circle a thousand yards in-diameter they would be warned by a keening in Grantin’s ears.
. By now the packs were almost empty, and Chom waded into a nearby pool to catch their dinner. Demonstrating exquisite coordination, the four-armed native tossed eight plump fish upon the bank. Chom was willing to eat them raw, but Grantin met that suggestion with a groan. At last Chom agreed that the thickness of the underbrush would hide a small fire, provided Grantin could find fuel in the swampy country.
After a few minutes’ search the human discovered a peculiar variety of twisted shrub which solved the problem. He returned to their campsite carrying several of the plants, which he piled in a mound in the center of the clearing.
“What are those?” Chom asked him.
“I found them sprouting from the green-stemmed trees.
I think they’re a parasite. No leaves, no root system. They snap off at a touch, but they are hard and springy and seem thin enough to bum.”
Chom examined the plants as closely as possible in the poor light. Their appearance suggested the work of a demented basket weaver. Each was spherical, about two feet in diameter, and composed of flat, shiny black strips. These ribbons twisted and intertwined with great complexity like a tangled skein of yam. Still, none of the strips could be seen to split of converge. Each branch seemed to be constructed of one continuous tangled piece.
Chom wondered how they grew. Did they bend and turn upon themselves in response to some genetic code, or was each one patterned as uniquely as a snowflake?
