Rise of the Death Dealer (14 page)

ROSEBUDS

R
obin and Sharn stood in the shade of the forest at the edge of the clear track. Sunlight filled the track, and touched the petals and leaves of a wild rosebush at the forest edge.

Cutting a rose just short of the branch, she lifted the bud to her face. Its scent made her smile the way the sun smiles at break of day. She added it to her pile, folded a cloth around the bouquet and picked it up.

The wolf watched each move, then followed her back into the root house. Reaching the main room, Robin’s straight brow lowered.

Gath stood over the anvil, naked except for a fur and hide loincloth. His wounds had scabbed over, but several cracked open as he hammered a piece of Kitzakk metal which glowed red within exploding sparks. He stopped, looked at the face of his hammer and growled with disgust. The edges were being mangled by the hard steel.

Robin said quietly, “Maybe you can do some of your work outside today, in the fresh air and sunshine.”

She moved to the side table, and arranged the roses in a wine jar. Gath frowned at her. Feeling it, she tilted her head playfully.

“There,” she said. “Fifteen roses, one for each of the fifteen days I’ve been here. So you won’t forget me.” Her smile had some fun romping about her cheeks. “At least not right away.” •.

Gath did not comment, but his expression softened.

Robin turned from his eyes and began to move about the room touching the armor, furs and root walls. She moved slowly. His eyes followed her like leashed pets. When she reached him, she looked up solemnly. “I’ll never forget being here. It’s like something in a minstrel’s tale. So full of hiding places and tunnels and…” her wistful eyes locked with his, “and mysteries.”

Still no reply.

She grinned, lifted a hand and touched the scabs on his jaw as her voice scolded. “You know, if you’re going to keep getting in fights, you really should wear a helmet.”

He grabbed her hand as if to throw it aside, but instead cradled it in his pawlike hand. Lifting it, he breathed in her fresh warm scent, a bouquet of roses and leaves and air and Robin. When he looked at her, there was wonder in his eyes.

Robin trembled slightly with a rush of uncertainty, and looked away in confusion. He let her hand drop, and turned back to the anvil. Robin glanced over a shoulder at him and his head turned slightly toward her. The glowing metal cast deep shadows in the sockets of his eyes. They were intense and alert, yet strangely young, like a child grown old and hard before his time, before enjoying the years of laughter and the thousand nights of dreaming. She could not tell if he had lived thirty summers or twenty.

After a moment, Robin said quietly, “I will be going soon, but there are some things I must tell you first.” He turned away again and she moved to his shoulder. “Will you listen now, please? It’s very important.”

Without turning he said, “Because you saved my life does not mean I have to listen to your jabber.” He positioned the glowing metal, raised his hammer, then suddenly gave up, shoved the metal back into the fire and set his hammer down.

“Thank you,” she said primly. She fetched a wine jar and gave it to him, then gathered a fur and sat down. He took a long drink and sat down facing her, his back against the hearth.

Robin repeated her message carefully. “I came to Calling Rock to tell you what you now know better than anyone, that the Kitzakks are coming, in great strength. And to… to ask for your help.”

“Why? The forest tribes have hidden from raiders before.”

“This isn’t the same. There are thousands of them, and they’ll come again and again, and keep coming. It’s the truth. Brown John knows them. He lived among them. They’re organized and relentless. They will march through each village one by one, kill the men who resist, and carry off the women and children in chains and cages. No one will be spared. And Brown John sent me to tell you…”

“To do what? Conquer this horde?” He grunted brutally. “Does he think I am a magician?”

“He thinks… he knows you are strong.”

He nodded. “Strong enough to take care of myself.”

He lifted the wine jar to drink, but did not. He stared over the lip at her, watching her enthusiasm and confidence waver. She did not avoid his eyes, but her voice became quiet.

“How can you hide when you know what I say is true? When you know we need you?”

“It suits me.”

“But you can’t ignore them forever. They’ll come here too.”

“Let them,” he whispered, and drank deep.

“Gath,” she begged, “you must believe me. No one can hide from them. Particularly you. You’ve defeated them twice now. Shamed them. They won’t rest until you’re dead.”

“My trail is set,” he blurted harshly. “I have taken an oath. I work alone.”

“But surely the god of these trees,” she pointed at the root walls, “or whatever god you swear by, will understand?”

“I did not swear to a god. I swore to myself.” His tone had the finality of a driven nail.

She sat back defeated. “Then you leave us to die… or live in cages.”

He studied her, his eyes impenetrable. “What do you… no… what does Brown John think I can do?”

“Oh, Gath!” She sat forward with a sudden rush of renewed hope. “You can unite us! Be our champion! If we have hope, everything is possible. And with you and Brown John working together, we’ll have it.”

He smiled mockingly.

“Don’t look down on him,” Robin begged. “I know you think he’s only an entertainer, but entertainers can be smart, and they can inspire. Look at what he’s done already!”

“I will tell you what he has done, small girl of the Weavers. He has pestered and annoyed everyone, particularly the Kitzakks. He is a foolish troublemaker! An actor and maker of lies who trades for silver, things which are not his.”

She started to argue, but stopped as he stood up and hovered over her. His voice was hollow.

“Look at yourself. He tricked you with his fancy talk and tall tales, compelled you, a helpless girl who weaves cloth, to come here and feed yourself to the dangers of The Shades, to find and enter this house which no other mortal has left alive.”

The sudden sharp truths made her falter. They were different, new, but unalterably true and she swayed beneath the understanding of them.

He turned to the anvil, and looked down at the metal in the fire.

“I see,” she whispered, “you… you’re not going to let me go?”

“I should not,” he said, “but I am going to, so you can carry my message to Brown John. Meat for metal, that is all I will give, him. Tell him that. I need a helmet, and body armor made of this outlander metal.” He turned to her. “Now we are finished. I saved you, and you have healed me. So you are free to go.”

She sighed with relief. “I swear I’ll tell no one of this place.”

His expression remained impenetrable.

She nodded, then stood and said bravely, “Well, I don’t understand you any better than you understand me. Least of all why you saved my life. But you did. And you saved my village, my people. I am grateful to you for that, and I always will be. But… well, I am finished also. I have given you my message, so now I will return to Rag Camp with your reply. Will you take me there?”

He nodded.

“Thank you.” She slung her pouch over her shoulder, moved to the stairs and Sharn, sitting on the fourth step, stood abruptly and growled.

“Wait!” It was a command.

Robin stopped short and turned to him. “It’s all right,” she said calmly, “Sharn won’t stop me. He knows me now.”

She moved up to the growling wolf, stroked his head and gave it a kiss, then ascended the stairs and went out. The wolf and man remained motionless, staring at each other, their expressions as identical as a matched pair of fools.

By late afternoon, Gath and Robin were moving east along Summer Trail in the Valley of Miracles. He walked.

She drove her wagon. When they came in sight of Rag Camp, Gath turned back. Robin reined up, sighed, and watched him for a long while. Then she headed her wagon toward the camp.

NIGHT SOUNDS

O
n his return trip Gath, parched and dry, was forced to stop and water frequently. When he reached his root house, he was exhausted and feverish. His bandaged wounds were seeping. He looked around outside, then inside for Sharn. The wolf was not there. He moved to the table, noticed the rosebuds had begun to blossom. He swore, lay down on the furs in front of his fire with a wine jar and began to drink. After two cups he was asleep.

He woke fitfully during the darkest part of the night. His mouth was again dry and his lips parched. He took a drink of wine and put more wood on the fire, then looked around. Sharn had not returned.

He went outside and stood in the cool moonlight, listening. The shrill clutter of nocturnal melodies soothed him. Then another sound rose above them and cut into him painfully.

It was the distant howl of a wolf. Not the normal night cry of that breed, but the sad, forlorn howl of an animal without a mate.

DAWN

T
he colors of the gaudy wagon were muted by the cool grey morning light that was spreading over Stone Crossing. Bone sat in the driver’s box folding a blanket on the seat beside him. Dirken sprawled on the flatbed snoring.

Brown John stood a short way off under an apple tree, his hands on Robin’s shoulders, and his lively eyes looking cheerily into hers. Her forlorn little face blinked back. He cupped her cheeks fondly in his gentle hands, rubbing away the moisture with his thumbs, and said, “You’ve done well, child. And I will hear no more words of defeat and failure from your lovely mouth. All that was asked of you was to deliver a few words, and you did that and more. A great deal more. You led him into battle against the Kitzakks, you saved his life. And he showed you his secret dwelling place, allowed you to leave with no more guarantee of silence than a small promise. These are truly extraordinary achievements, and totally unexpected.”

“Thank you, Brown John,” she murmured. “It’s kind of you to put it that way.”

“Kindness, dear child, has nothing to do with it.” He wagged a pedantic finger at her nose. “I merely speak the truth. And the most promising thing of all is that he sent you to me with a request for weapons and armor.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Because it reveals many things. Not only that he now understands the strength of the Kitzakks and their metal, but that he begins to understand himself. Believe me, Robin Lakehair, the stage is now set. His time is at hand. Soon, very soon now, he will be more than eager to deal with me in order to assure his superiority over other men.”

He laughed out loud, hugged her and it brought a smile to her cheeks. “Go now,” he said. “Bone and Dirken will see you home so you can get a well-deserved rest.”

She nodded and started for the wagon, but shyly turned back and kissed him on the cheek. Then she scurried to the wagon, climbed up and sat down beside Bone. The big man rose up proudly beside her with a grin on his face big enough to carpet a castle, then flicked his whip, and the wagon rolled forward.

As the wagon crested the top of Stone Crossing, the sun’s rays spilled over the horizon and the Grillard wagon blossomed in all its scarlet, pink and orange glory.

WET SCARLET

T
he Glyder Snake arched up out of mossy soil and pointed a flickering black tongue at the green wall of leafy ferns. Beyond the ferns, harsh sounds rose above the music of dripping dew, trickling water and insect songs that filled the deep shade of the rain forest. Booted feet were crushing dead undergrowth.

As the footsteps came closer a delicate, red-nailed hand stroked the snake’s head. It arched up languorously against the pleasing pressure of the fingertips, then looked up at the owner of the hand. Suddenly the fingers snapped up the snake, held it tight behind the head. Its jaws spread wide, gasping for breath, and its nine-inch glowing body flailed around the wrist in agony.

It was Cobra’s hand. She held the imprisoned snake up to her black-rimmed gold eyes. “I am sorry, small one, but I have no choice.”

Holding the writhing snake within the concealing folds of her robe, she moved through the wall of ferns toward the footsteps, and emerged at the edge of a small shaded glen. She was nearly invisible, part of the vegetation. Her robe had taken on the color of the ferns. Her silver skullcap, like the tips of the ferns, glittered green-gold where the sun touched it. Her bosom rose and fell matching the rhythm of the feathery green leaves fluttering on the damp breeze.

The small glen was no bigger than a private room at an inn. A deep bed of moss carpeted the ground. It was surrounded by ferns except for the side opposite the sorceress, where two birch trees framed a doorlike opening through which could be seen an infinity of flickering black shadows. The roof was leafy branches. A shaft of golden sunlight pierced that roof, made a golden puddle of light at the center of the mossy bed.

The sounds of footsteps beyond the two birch trees grew louder.

Her narrow lips parted slightly in anticipation, and she stepped into the warm column of sunlight.

The advancing sounds hesitated, then moved forward again, angry with snapping twigs and breaking bushes, and Gath stepped out of the enveloping darkness, like a sword drawn from a scabbard. He was darker than she remembered. More brutal. Hard dry scabs were turning to scar tissue. His fur loincloth bristled slightly in the breeze. A new suit of chain mail, his belt and a Kitzakk helmet were slung over his shoulders. A bright steel axe rode his right fist. His chiseled features were mottled with dark shadows, and wore an expression of dark invitation. To a bed of murder.

Cobra trembled involuntarily, and her robe shimmered in the sunlight, began to change. Yellows faded to orange, vermilions to hot scarlet. When she parted her robe, the golden cloth surrendered to its prisoners and flushed flesh revealed itself at breasts, stomach and thighs.

Gath sneered at this invitation. He shrugged the belt, helmet and suit of chain mail off his shoulders, and they dropped with his axe to the ground. His only weapons were his hands, more than enough.

Cobra shuddered, took a step back, lifted the writhing Glyder Snake in front of her and held a thin dagger at its throat. “Wait!” she pleaded.

Gath did not break stride.

Cobra slit the Glyder snake’s throat, and its head tumbled away. She held up the spurting throat and gasped, «“Wait! Your secret is safe now. Only the snake knew where you lived. I can not find you anymore.”

He knocked the bloody reptile out of her hand, and backhanded her hard to the ground. She went down in one soft piece, sprawled on her back. There were streaks of blood across her cheek. Her dagger lay five feet off.

He glared down at her, a hot shadowed mass of muscle pulsing with death.

She gasped for breath, rolled onto a hip and gaped up at him as he dropped on her. He took hold of her head and turned her face away from his, slowly began to twist her neck. She gagged and shuddered under his body sending warm waves of heat through his hand, thighs and groin, and he hesitated. When she spoke, it was very carefully.

“Don’t kill me! Let me talk first.” She gasped for air, begged, “Please, let go. I can’t breathe.” She looked at him over a shoulder. “There’s no danger. I’m alone.”

He let her drop back gasping on the moss, and glanced around warily, then back at her.

She drew herself from under him, and rose on her elbows, whispered, “The Kitzakks send men to hunt you, bounty hunters who kill from shadows and great distances.”

“And you will tell them where to find me.”

“I can’t. Only the snake knew the location of your cave. But they will find you just the same.”

“Again you lie.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I have no reason now, you have passed the test.”

The corners of her mouth reached into the lush hollows of her cheeks. She indicated his new tools. “You must have better, far better! A man who has the kind of enemies you have needs better metal than any ‘man’ can provide.”

He studied her thoughtfully, then said quietly, “I did not know there was better.”

She nodded. “There is always better if you know where to shop… and have the price.”

He studied her for awhile. Her scarlet robe brightened, took on an almost hypnotic glitter. Her heat wafted across the moss and caressed his chest. Ignoring it, he said arrogantly, “I have the price, if you can get the metal.”

She crooned, “I have it now. A helmet. One like no other. It was worn by the legendary Shalarmard, and the demon tyrants, Barbar, Karchon and Geddis. A helmet made from an ancient formula with steel smelted by the fires of the underworld, and hammered on the anvil of the gods.” She waited. “You are interested?”

He nodded.

Realizing he had agreed more quickly than he had intended, her teeth flashed briefly behind the moist scarlet of her smiling lips. They stood slowly, appraising each other. Then, with confidentiality, she murmured, “The helmet is in my dwelling. In the Land of Smoking Skies beyond the Land of Toofar. Come, visit me there, and it will be yours.”

He said, “A long trip!”

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “One most men do not dare to take.”

“With reason.” His tone challenged her. “You spoke of a price?”

She started to reply, hesitated. Color flamed on her cheeks. Her garment glowed wet scarlet, then turned transparent revealing the dark accents of her body, lewd living jewels. She covered herself with her robe, and held her right shoulder gently with left hand. Her right arm hung loosely.

She said, “Dark One, I am not made in the normal manner, but in the manner of the ancients. My passions and my nature were formed during a time when women sat in judgment over men, a time when woman was the hunter and man the prey. So forgive my boldness.” Her eyes became almost imperceptible. A husky whisper exhaled her words. “You are the price. Come to me, be my consort, and you will have paid in full.”

He responded sharply, “A whore’s price.”

“No,” she said with force, “a king’s. Once you wear the helmet no creature will be able to approach you unannounced, no venom poison your blood, no man defeat you.”

He ran a thumbnail across a scab on his forearm then back again and shook his head. “I would rather kill you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she said in a low throaty whisper. “Not, at least, until you find if I speak the truth.”

Cobra used a finger to tuck a disobedient strand of black hair back in place, then stiffened elegantly, regal in manner and tone. “Take your time. Wait until your wounds are completely healed and your strength is what it was. Rebuild your new armor until it suits you. There is no hurry.” Her tone became low and husky. “Believe me, I will wait. Men like yourself, my friend of the shadows, are rare. Very rare. And I can make you unique… release all the power that boils in your blood. Make you invincible.” She took a sharp breath. “Do you know what that means to me? No. You could not. You have no idea what it means to a woman, or how she would feel, holding that kind of power in her arms.”

His body replied with a flush of desire.

She smiled hotly, moved to him confidently, and allowed her voluptuous curves to press against him.

His hand took hold of her neck and he demanded, “Name the landmarks. I will find my way.”

He let go of her, and she staggered back. Her breath caught in her throat, then she told him the way. He picked up his things and strode past her, disappearing into a fluttering wall of ferns.

She did not watch him go, but listened to his footsteps fade away. Relieved, she let herself sink slightly with exhaustion and the natural colors of her clothing returned. She glanced at the headless body of the Glyder Snake sprawled awkwardly on the moss. It had lost all of its beautiful electric colors, and was as dark as a wet stick.