Lords of Destruction (17 page)

EN SAKALDA

T
he wagon bounded and caromed nimbly over the dry river bed, and Cobra hung
on to the sideboard and Brown John’s shoulder to keep herself from being bounced
out of the driver’s box. The wheels squealed, the wind whipped her, and her
chain did a noisy irritating jig on the seat between her and the
bukko.
But her angularly beautiful face remained reposed as she studied the landscape
before them.

The dry river banks on both sides were coming closer and closer as the wagon
advanced, forming a funnel that led to a massive mound of black rock some eighty
or ninety feet high. At its heights, rays of sun streaked through shadowed
columns and crumbling stone walls. At its base, the wadi split in two and moved
around opposite sides, indicating this was the spot they were searching for. The
junction of the two rivers, the location of the ancient desert skin town, En
Sakalda.

Brown John grinned at Cobra and shouted jubilantly, “That has to be it. We’re
on our way now!”

She nodded, shouting back, “I wish it wasn’t black.”

“What’s that?” he yelled.

“The rock. It looks like the mound of Black Veshta herself.” She pointed at
the soft rounded flanks of the closing river banks. “I feel like we are being sucked up between her legs… to be swallowed.” He laughed. “That, beautiful
lady, is not exactly how a man would look at such an eventuality.”

She smiled knowingly and slid close beside him, silencing the chain that
linked them. Then she put her mouth close to his ear and spoke loudly. “I have
to admit that your optimistic male point of view no longer nauseates me,
bukko,
but I do not share it.”

His brown eyes glittered youthfully in his wrinkled yet boyish face. “If
you think that black doll has cursed us just
because I touched it, stop worrying. I once defeated the consort of the Master
of Darkness himself, and all I needed was a forked stick.”

She laughed, knowing he referred to her, and put a firm hand on his thigh.
“Are you telling me,” she purred like a cat seeking shelter, “that I have
nothing to fear… because you are personally going to defend my virtue?”

He arched a white eyebrow, then dipped his head affirmatively with theatrical
aplomb.

She laughed again, scolding him with shimmering gold eyes, and said, “You
only say that, Brown, because you know I have no virtue left to defend.” Brown
John laughed again, lustily whipping the horses forward, and vermilion rose into
his blistered cheeks.

Cobra smiled to herself as she watched him. The placement of her hand and her
flirtatious humor had been calculated to flatter him and encourage his growing
attraction for her. She needed him on her side, and in some way she did not
fully understand, she felt the entire group was dependent on him. But despite
her calculated flirtations, she could not deny she felt contentment at his
touch, and thrilled to his laughter like a girl of twelve. It was as if they
were being bound together in some perversely human way, and this she did not
understand at all.

When they reached the base of black rock, Gath halted and Brown John reined
the wagon up beside him. Robin and Jakar now sat on the roof behind the
bukko
and Cobra. For a long moment, they all looked about warily without speaking.

The mid-day silence was unyielding, heavy. There was no movement of air,
creature or cloud. The dry heat reached beneath fingernail, penetrating mouth,
nose and ear, and a torpor filled them as they studied the towering slabs of
lava.

They formed a multitude of shadows and hiding places, and each seemed to hold
a haunting mystery: the impenetrable shadows, the dark boulders carved like
chain-links, the strange, voluptuous columns writhing out of the crest, the road
winding in supine invitation up into the black body. Somewhere above at the
heart of the mysteries was the trail they hunted, the Way of the Scorpion.

Gath shared an understanding glance with Brown John. He flicked the reins,
and the group rode up the narrow road with Gath leading. At the top, they rode
past crumbling walls and standing pillars, the ancient rotting edifices of some
dead race, then through scattered boulders and up a bald rise. Gath suddenly
reined up. Brown John started to do the same, but the Barbarian motioned for him
to keep coming. When the wagon crested the rise, the
bukko
pulled up, and
they all stared in silent shock.

On the opposite side of the rise, spread out on the flat ground which had
once supported the ancient skin town of En Sakalda, scattered groups of nomadic
tribesmen dozed in the mid-day heat under makeshift tents and lean-tos. About
the area were stacked cages, half-built slave pens and piles of carobwood slave
sticks. Chains and manacles were heaped beside anvils, where dying fires of
dried camel dung glowed. Whitish smoke rose from the fires and lay like a
vaporous blanket a few feet above the ground. It drifted languorously on the hot
still air, making everything appear vague and ethereal. A stack of occupied
cages rose out of the middle of the smoke. They held young girls. At the
southern side of the camp, where the surrounding rim of boulders cast the most
shade, was a large black tent. A banner dangled limply from its highest post. It
was black with three red circles.

Cobra stared at it in shock, whispering sharply, “The banner… above the
black tent! It is a sign reserved for the personal envoys of the Nymph Queen of
Pyram.”

Brown John stifled a gasp. “But according to the map, we’re still a long ways
from her territory! What are they doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“It
appears they are buying slaves,” she said, her voice tight. “We better ride in
and purchase provisions from them… so they won’t become suspicious.”

Gath said quietly, “Bat soldiers.”

They looked at him sharply, and he nodded at some rocks rising above the camp
site behind him.

A small detachment of armed men, short and covered with fur, were camped on
the rocks, perched there like huge flying rodents. Their horses were tethered
below the rocks.

Jakar chuckled cynically and said to Robin, “These guys just can’t resist
you, tart.”

“Stop it,” she blurted, terror riding her eyes. Brown John smiled
reassuringly at Robin. “No need to be afraid, lass. They can’t possibly be
looking for you, not here. We’ll just ride in, buy what we need and ride out.”

He turned to Gath. Both men gave an imperceptible nod of agreement. Gath
nudged his stallion with his boots, started down the incline, and Brown John
moved the wagon after him. At the bottom, a small group of nomads emerged from
their ragged dwellings and warmly greeted the wagon of traveling players,
saluting it in the desert style, touching stomach, heart and mind.

They were lean, hard, dark men, with the bearing and pride of those who have
bought and sold other men. Most wore heavy cotton robes, others had only their
hips wrapped. All had daggers with jewel-crusted hilts hanging from their long
necks, and the richest among them had their long dark fingers linked with iron
chains attached to silver rings inlaid with red carnelians to ward off the
dreaded green-bellied flies that worked the desert. There were Kamascene,
Bakar, Nubante, Nalik and two or three tribes Cobra did not recognize. As they
crowded up in front of the horses, several took hold of the harnesses and
shouted to the
bukko
to follow them.

The slavers led the wagon to the back of a large stone auction block, the top
of which rose nearly to the wagon’s door. The nomads were anxious for the
traveling players to use the flat stone block for their stage, and repeatedly
asked when the performance might begin.

Brown John thanked the slavers for their thoughtfulness and help, but begged
off, telling them that his troupe was too weary from the road to perform. But
the slavers insisted, offering provisions in exchange for an opportunity to see
the two girls dance. To finalize the arrangement, they brought forth wine and
cheese and bread, handing it up to the players, and the
bukko
had no
choice but to agree. He promised that his beauties would delight both their eyes
and ears, but pleaded that they needed rest and food first. The slavers
reluctantly agreed to this condition and returned to their patches of shade to
lie down and wait.

The troupe sat in the wagon’s shade and hurriedly nourished themselves. This
done, Gath remounted his stallion and spoke to Jakar.

“Find out why these slavers are here and who uses the black tent.” He turned
to Brown John. “I will find the trail.”

The
bukko
nodded, and Gath rode off toward the huge boulders rimming
the west end of the camp, as Jakar casually strolled into it. Brown John turned
to Cobra and Robin.

“You’d two better make yourself beautiful, child,” he said, “while Cobra and
I see to the horses.”

“There is no time for that,” Cobra said breathlessly. “We
must destroy the map.” Brown John started to object, and she added, “I can’t
explain out here.” She took Robin by the elbow, saying, “Come, butterfly, we
will need your help,” and led her toward the door of the wagon.

Brown John, being linked to the serpent woman by the chain, had no choice but
to follow.

When they were inside the lower room of the wagon, Cobra secured the door and
shutters. The hard trip had opened cracks in the body of the wagon, and thin
shafts of light leaked in, illuminating the room and letting in the faint
chatter of the expectant nomads. Finished, she put her eyes on Robin and spoke
to her quietly but forcefully.

“Strip to the waist, quickly.” Robin hesitated, glancing at Brown John, and
Cobra said to him, “Tell her it’s all right, and give me the doll.”

She extended her hand, and Brown John blustered importantly, “Now just a
minute, woman! What are you up to? We can’t destroy the map, we still need it.”

“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “We may be overheard.” He scowled, and she added,
“Trust me, friend! The only safe thing to do is destroy the doll. It’s bringing
us bad luck.”

“You mean because I touched it?” he said, scoffing at her. “You can’t be
serious.”

“I am quite serious. We are on Black Veshta’s sacred ground. She rules here,
some even believe the desert to be her body. And we have offended her, so we
must destroy the doll.”

“That makes no sense,” said the
bukko.
“That won’t just offend her,
that will make her furious.”

“No doubt,” said Cobra, “but it will also destroy
the totem’s magic. Now give it to me.” She removed a small vial of dark stain
and a brush from a shelf, adding, “Before we destroy it, I must copy it.” She
smiled at Robin. “Go ahead, child, remove your tunic.”

Brown John nodded at Robin to oblige, and she quickly slipped out of her
tunic as he, looking from Robin to Cobra, reluctantly removed the doll and
handed it to her.

“You’re going to copy it on Robin?” he asked incredulously.

“Exactly,” Cobra said.

She held the doll up to Robin’s body as the girl pushed her ragged garment
down on her hips, baring herself from belly to throat.

“See,” Cobra said anxiously, “she is becoming a woman. The proportions are
almost identical.”

The
bukko,
flushing slightly at Robin’s nakedness, said, “She’s grown,
all right. But when she dances, everyone will see it.”

“Yes,” Cobra admitted, “but no one will suspect that a few tattoos on a dusty
slattern is a map. Besides, the best place to hide something is in plain sight,
correct?”

Cobra, without waiting for his reply, uncorked the vial, sat on a stool
facing Robin and began to copy a sign on her belly.

Brown John watched, scowling with suspicion, then said, “Well, it’s a dandy
place to hide something, there’s no denying that. But just what do those signs
mean? She’s not going to start attracting more demons, is she?”

“Trust me, Brown, please,” Cobra pleaded. “They are measurements, distances,
that’s all. Now please help me. Get some water and a cloth, and wash the dust
and oils off her skin. And hurry! Those slavers are already impatient to see her
perform.”

Brown John obliged, giving Robin the cloth to wash herself while Cobra copied
the map.

When Cobra was half finished, drawing the sign of a scorpion between Robin’s
breasts, the sounds from outside grew louder. They all held still listening. The
nomads had begun to gather in front of the stone auction block, and Robin
flinched.

“They’re already gathering,” she gasped.

“It’s all right, lass,” Brown John said. “It’s customary on the road to make
the audience wait awhile.”

“But where’s Jakar?” Robin asked nervously. “Why isn’t he back? What if he’s
found some reason for us not to perform? What if something’s happened to him?”

Robin jerked as she spoke, smearing the mark Cobra was drawing, and Cobra
snapped, “Hold still!”

“I’m sorry.” Robin held as still as a stone.

“Good girl,” Cobra purred. “The sooner the map is finished and the doll
destroyed, the safer we will all be… including Jakar.”

Cobra winked at Robin to relax her, then dipped her brush in the vial of stain and resumed drawing.

When Cobra finished, the crowd outside had grown and become noisy. It was
beating small drums and shouting for the entertainment to start. Cobra and Brown
John fanned Robin with a blanket to dry the stain, then Robin got back into her
ragged tunic. Brown John tied a yellow sash around her waist, and orange and red
sashes to her ankles and wrists. Then he held her shoulders as he spoke.

“When you get out there, don’t flirt or tease this time. Just be yourself in
front of this group, and they will adore you. Slaving is ugly work, and it
provides all the lusty pleasures a man can stomach, but little laughter. So have
fun! Be the
cutup,
the
knockabout.
You know the parts. Do the
opening dance from ‘Chums’ and let them accompany you on their own drums. It
will flatter them.”