Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (19 page)

Staring through the pulsing torch-shadows at
the youth, the old man could not detect hostility. Rather, the
darkened face of the man-child still showed sympathy.

"I did not mean offense, kind sir. I was but
... hungry."

"That's all right." The green-eyed one
signaled his forgiveness. "And let me make another guess. When you
heard me stirring upstairs, you pried the nails out of the storage
door and tried to crawl back under the stairs so I wouldn't find
you. What a nasty surprise that must have been. To have a lightning
strike vault you from there to here!"

"It was, sir. Oh, it was. And to be caught in
a cage. Accused of being someone else. I have had a most terrible
time."

"Not to worry. You're safe with me now."

"In exchange for your protection, I would do
anything you ask, kind young sir. Carry items. I am old, but still
am strong. I know nothing about this place. About these strangers
who would hurt me."

"Though there's much that I don't know
myself, I have had occasion to learn something about this world."
The leader thought to himself for some moments. "For starters Mr.
Robin, you're in a country called Stil-de-grain. As you've probably
noticed, the gravity is lighter here than at home."

"Yes. Lighter."

"About your heart ...?" Asked with empathy.
Good. Robin had taken a right step with that explanation!

"Only when terrified, do I ... faint. With
you, I will be safe. It will never happen."

"Good. But enough talk for now. We've all had
a tough day. Some sleep will put us right for tomorrow."

The piercing eyed leader frowned. "You came
through the secret door -- the Mage-hole -- after us?"

"Yes."

"Did you close it behind you?"

"I did, sir. As did you, yourself, before
me."

"Good." The man was smiling, something he did
often and for little reason. "That makes us safe from pursuit. We
can get a good night's sleep, at least." The leader smiled again.
"Before we turn in, though, let me assure you that I know a way to
get us back to our own world. So don't worry about that. Give me a
few days to learn what's been going on, and I'm out of here. You
can come, too."

"That is very good." Imagine! To think that a
person of Robin's stature -- in all the bands -- would contemplate
a return to the other, magic-less world! Ignorance, alone, pleaded
for the youth's life!

"My problem is over there," the leader
continued, motioning at the mindless Army Head. "But I'll think of
something to do with him in the morning."

"Thank you again, sir. I am most grateful.
And most lucky to have found a man so knowledgeable and so
kind."

"That's all right." The leader put up one
hand, as if to banish praise. "You can get a blanket out of the
pack." He pointed. "Though it's warm here at night, it gets damp
because of the prevailing fog."

"Yes, sir. Thank you kindly, sir."

All the while Robin was getting his thin
blanket, all the while wrapping himself in it, all the while
stretching out on a flat place in preparation for sleep -- the
others doing the same -- he thought about the strange, green-eyed
man.

Clearly, this English speaker was from the
other world. Specifically, was the new owner of Robin's house in
that dreadful place. (Though Robin had watched the youth from the
other world's woods, this was the first chance Robin had for a
closer observation of ... John-Lyon.)

As Robin pulled the blanket tighter against
the nighttime damp, he could only conclude that he must treat the
young leader with exaggerated care!

What was certain was that there were
mysteries about him. There was, for instance, the means by which he
passed between the worlds. Of some interest was the leader's
statement that the Army Head posed a problem. How could this Leet
be troublesome when the Weird ... Zwicia ... had stolen the Head's
mind, making the soldier vulnerable?

Questions without answers, answerless
questions prompting caution.

As Robin settled down at last, secure enough
in his mind to allow himself to fall asleep, he began to plan a
strategy. For now, he must "gentle" the leader by courting the
leader's trust. (For, as with animals, domesticated beasts were
easier to slaughter than feral ones). He would begin to "tame"
John-Lyon on the morrow. Arise early, perhaps, to surprise the
leader with a gift.

Hmmm.

Though Robin did not understand the leader's
"difficulty" with the Army Head, if Robin could find a knife --
though making good use of the soldiers' knives, fear of discovery
had made him drop them in the bastion -- he would ingratiate
himself with John-Lyon by presenting the newly awakened leader with
the troublesome soldier's, severed head!

Was the source of John's nervousness the fact
that he was carrying so many coins in his modern world pocket? Not
that they made that much noise, though he'd gotten more thick gold
and silver pieces than he'd expected for his "beautifully-crafted"
chain. ("Beautifully-crafted" was what the owner of yesterday's
large inn had called John's simple gold chain when he'd bought it.)
Whatever it was that was making John edgy -- sudden flights of
birds to right or left, unexplainable insect silences in the
thickening scrub along the narrow trail -- John was uneasy. Now
that he thought about it, he had the same sense of foreboding he'd
felt when escaping through the underground passageways of Hero
Castle. (And it didn't help to know that old man Robin had been
shadowing him!)

John's little party had been on the path for
three days now, at the beginning, sliding down steep, shale slick,
goat trails that plummeted from the cave mouth to the valley below,
then toiling over barren flint hills.

At first meeting solitary trappers who packed
layers of animal hides on their backs, they were now encountering
lone traders in long tunics and soft caps, some porting their
merchandise on carry-frames, others leading ponies laden with
whatever goods the trader had for sale -- cloth, metalware, food,
clay pots -- the path beginning to flatten out as they worked their
way out of the foothills of the Hero Mountains. The sky, yellow as
long as mountain peaks foreshortened their view, had spread out to
reveal its normal, rainbow pattern of concentric rings. Gold
overhead, orange in the direction they were going, green behind
them at the horizon.

The group John led was a strange one.
Platinia dressed in a new, white tunic, walking beside the
shuffling, purple clad Zwicia. Then the bent-over, bleary-eyed
American, Mr. Robin -- still something of a mystery. And bringing
up the rear, Leet, the Malachite Army Head, stiff-backed even in
the robe that hid his military tunic, his paralyzed right arm
flopping in time to the beat of his stride, the soldier still under
Zwicia's "spell."

The somnambulant Head now at a safe remove
from his army unit, John decided it was time to wake him up, John
signaling a stop, the others coming to bunch around him.

Glad to rest, Robin and the women swung off
their light packs (knapsacks, one of the first things John bought
from a peddler who was selling trapper gear.)

"Zwicia, it's time to take the curse off
Leet."

"Cur's?"

"It's time to give up your control of his
mind."

Zwicia looked doubtful.

"He's a long way from his army buddies now.
No way they could help him and no way he could do us any damage
with that paralyzed arm."

"Is that wise, sir?" cheeped Robin. "Might he
not slip away?" As if to emphasize something that had slipped away,
the old man brushed his withered hands over what was left of his
sweat plastered hair.

"He might. And that wouldn't be so bad,
either. What could he do to us here?" A question that had the old
man looking both upset and obsequious -- his normal look. "I know
he had you in that cage. That he mistook you for Pfnaravin. And I'm
not saying you have to like him. It's just that he'll be less
trouble fully awake."

The explanation delivered, John signaled to
Zwicia.

Following orders without complaint -- for
once -- turning, the old woman began waving her spidery hands
before the Army Head's eyes.

"You 'waken up. You 'waken up."

Said several times, like a chant.

A quick pass of her claw-like hands, and Leet
slumped; then straightened to glance around, shocked at his
surroundings. And who wouldn't be?

"You back with us?" John asked.

"What ...?" The dark-skinned, short-haired
Army Head turned to face John, confused.

"We're several days beyond Hero Castle.
Zwicia, on my orders, has kept you out of commission for some
time." What John was saying seemed to be soaking in. "As soon as
I've learned what I came here to find out, I fully intend to return
you to your men. For now, don't give me any trouble or back under
you go."

The Head stared at John. "I am your
prisoner," he said, at least getting that much right. Pausing as if
struggling with himself, Leet made a feeble salute with his left
arm.

"It would help if you could think of yourself
as just another traveling companion," John suggested, not too
hopefully.

On the other hand, John didn't care what Leet
thought. In the three days they'd been on the road, the party had
visited enough inns for John to have discovered there were no
Malachite troopers this deep to the "claw-ward" side of
Stil-de-grain. Any action the old army officer might try against
them would reveal him to be a hated Malachite. Viewed
realistically, Leet was in more danger from the locals than John
was from Leet.

"But ... how could ...?!" Leet's voice was
rising, the Army Head just noticing Robin, the man Leet had
pronounced dead.

"Things are not always what they seem," John
said, dryly. "In the first place, this is Mr. Robin, not
Pfnaravin." Leet continued to stare at Robin, Robin glaring back.
"And in the second, he has a medical problem that sometimes makes
him appear to be dead."

Since the Army Head looked like he'd absorbed
that explanation, it was time to move on. "From now on, the line of
march will be Platinia after me, then Zwicia, Leet and Robin."

A nod of John's head and everyone -- but Leet
-- shouldered a pack, the group trudged off down the loose pebbled
path.

From John's point of view, the big
disappointment was that John had been unable to find out any kind
of overview of the war. All that the locals knew was what John had
determined for himself that, so far, this part of Stil-de-grain had
been spared.

What was strange was that both the merchant
and the hostel owner's other patrons (who quickly heard about the
chain-for-cash swap) had become afraid of John. So much so there
was obvious relief when John and his group had finished their meat
stew lunch and hit the road.

It was only after John undertook some tactful
questioning of a barkeep at a smaller, wattle and daub inn at the
end of that day's journey that John was able to piece together what
had happened. It seemed there were rumors of a band of thugs
operating in the countryside, criminals said to have come from
"beak-ward", the robber pack thought to have raided Xanthin City,
looting jewelry and other treasures from the Stil-de-grain palace.
Putting two and two together, John had come to the conclusion that
the innkeep at the first tavern, seeing the "excellent" quality of
John's gold chain (another world's machine stamping out the chain
perfectly) had concluded that John and his band were this criminal
element, newly arrived from Xanthin with stolen objets d'art.

All of that, prologue, John's party
continuing down the track, the trail flattening out, thickets
pressing in on the path, clumps of taller trees rising in the
distance, John occupying his mind by thinking again about their
fellow traveler, Mr. Robin. Time well spent since there was
something ... sneaky ... about the guy.

Awakening in the cave the morning after
they'd left the secret passage, John had caught Robin rummaging
through the pack, maybe looking for another blanket. If so, why had
he stopped when John caught him at it?

All John really knew about him was that he'd
been the man in the woods outside John's home, had been getting in
John's house, and had been vaulted to this world.

Back to the present.

They were headed for the City of Grege,
located at a fork in the Tartrazine. At least that's where the last
tavern owner had assured John this trail would take him.

City or no, John had decided this was the
last day to seek information before doubling back to Hero Castle.
Much as he wanted to learn how the Stil-de-grain-Malachite-Azare
war was going, he was even more concerned about keeping within
striking distance of Hero Castle and of home.

The decision to turn back firmed up in John's
mind, John gave his attention to the countryside around him, bushy,
dark green trees closing on the road, by the look and smell of
them, scraggly pines.

Overhead, the glow -- John almost said "sun"
shine to himself -- that came from the golden sky was warm, but not
too hot. Nor was the morning cold. Of the bands John had heard
about, Stil-de-grain had the most moderate climate. Fog every dawn
and dusk. Rain every night. But a comfortable temperature during
the day. No wind. Had historian Paul been right when he'd guessed
this place to be an artificially constructed terrarium?

In the only other band John had visited,
Malachite, it had been too warm for John's comfort, even though
Golden, a Malachite native, said the temperature was unnaturally
cool. A failing of the magic, Golden had said, the green sky
darkening over that unfortunate band. No wind? Except that in
Malachite, John had felt the beginning of a wind, an evil, magic
wind, Golden thought, blowing misfortune from the dark band of
Azare.