A Fortune for Kregen (12 page)

Those long lines of iron riders reminded me in their frieze-like ghostly effect of some of the famous passages from
Ulbereth the Dark Reiver
. Whatever they portended, no one in the caravan could pretend it did not bode ill for us.

“A paktun?” Hunch was interested as we hurried on for the shelter of the trees. “Get into any big battles?”

“Aye, one or two.”

To the best of my knowledge, Nodgen had been a cutpurse running with Lop-eared Nath’s gang in his quarter of LionardDen. But, then, when a man has upward of two hundred years of life, as Kregans have, he may do many things, many things...

We were drawing near the trees and work lay ahead.

“Go on, then, Nodgen. Tell us!” Hunch was eager.

“Nothing in it — all a lot of yelling and dust and sweating and running—”

“Running? You lost?”

Nodgen’s bristles quivered. The Brokelsh are recognized as an uncouth race of diffs, with deplorable manners. He made an unfavorable comment in lurid language concerning the ancestry and level of military intelligence of the general in question.

Then we were in among the first trees and instead of breaking ranks to make camp, Galid the Krevarr strode up with his whip going like a fiddler’s elbow, urging us on. We stumbled on through the trees and down a long loamy slope where flowers blossomed most beautifully — although, at the moment, they meant very little to us slaves.

We burst out on the far side of the belt of trees and a most remarkable vista broke upon our eyes. Even the slaves cried out in wonder. On we were urged, down the slope. Before us spread a wide expanse extending as far as we could see under clear skies, with only the merest wisps of cloudlets.

That wide and extensive sunken plain was covered in rounded hills like tells. Hundreds of them reared from the ground as far as the eye could see. Their humps broke upward in serried ranks, in confused patterns, in haphazard clumpings. None was nearer than a dwabur or so to its neighbor. They varied in size, both as to height and extent, but each was crowned with a fantastic jumble of turreted towers, with fairy-tale battlements and spidery spires from which the mingled radiance of Antares struck sparks of fire.

Now every one of us could see why this place was called the Humped Land.

Our expedition hurried on. All this talk of gold lying about waiting to be picked up had given me the impression I would find mine workings, tailings glittering under the suns. But if these were mine workings then they were totally unlike any mine engineering I had seen on two worlds.

Any thought that by this headlong rush we had escaped the riders who had so ominously scouted us vanished as the long lines of swarthmen appeared over on both flanks, trotting out from the trees, pacing us.

Prince Nedfar and his group galloped past, their zorcas splendid, and following them rode a group of men mounted on swarths. They were led by a fierce, tall, upright man who lashed his scaly-swarth with vicious strokes of his crop. These were the purply-green scaled swarths of this part of Kregen. The jutmen of the caravan made threatening gestures. But any fool could see we were heavily outnumbered.

The caravan struggled on and those dark powerful lines of riders herded us.

The swarthmen of the caravan returned, evidently attempting to protect the flanks. But no attack was made. In the period that followed before the suns sank it was made perfectly plain to us that we were being herded, were being shepherded into a predetermined course between the monumental mounds.

As we passed the nearest pile, vegetation and trees growing on the miniature mountain were clearly visible, with streams falling in cataracts, and winding paths leading up to the walls and towers at the summit.

The suns declined. One hump — for to call these impressive mounds humps does not belittle their awesome character — one hump, then, lay directly before us, and to this particular one and no other it was clear the ominous riders were directing us. When we were within running distance the riders, with no warning and acting with consummate skill, lanced their swarths upon us.

Arrows curved against the darkling air. One or two slaves screamed and fell as the shafts pierced them.

In a straggling, bolting, panicking mob, we fled for the stone gateway at the foot of the mount.

There were ugly scenes as the carriages jammed trying to force their way through the stone gateway. But the riders curveted away, and loosed as they went, Parthian shots that fell among us. Men screamed.

Animals whinnied and neighed and shrieked. The dust smoked up, glinting in the slanting rays of the suns.

Tarkshur lashed his zorca alongside us, swearing foully, his black armor a blot of darkness against the last of the light.

“Wait, wait — let these craven fools press on. There is time.”

He was a damned Kataki; but he was right in this. The swarths melted back into the creeping shadows.

They had done what was clearly expected of them. Gradually the caravan crowded in through the gate and when we followed on last we saw the carts and coaches and beasts of burden all crammed into a wide area, bounded by high stone walls, with a dominating gateway at the far end. The gates were closed. The uproar continued.

I looked at Hunch and Nodgen and we three crept into a corner by the outer gate, out of the way of all those dangerous hooves and claws. A number of slaves were not so fortunate — or not so smartly craven — and were trampled to death.

Just what the hell would have happened then nobody could say. Over the inner portals a light bloomed, a pale corpse-green lych-light. Against it the shape of a woman showed, her hair a halo of translucent silver, her face in shadow. She lifted her arms and a voice, magnified artificially, echoed over the expedition.

“Listen to me, travelers, and be apprised.”

The silence dropped as a stone drops down a well.

“Do you all enter here of your own free will?”

No single person took up the shout. A chorus spurted up at once, men and women shrieking in their fear. “Yes! Yes!”

Even as the affirmative uproar went on, I fancied that Prince Nedfar, and Lobur the Dagger, for two, would not be shouting thus.

But the clamor continued.

“Let there be no mistake. You enter here to escape the riders who await you outside with steel and fire.

It is of your own free will and on your own ibs. Let it be so written.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” the mob shrieked.

“By the Triple Tails of Targ the Untouchable!” Tarkshur lashed his zorca to still the animal. His lowering face filled with fury. “This is a nonsense! It is all a trick!”

The nearest people turned to look at him. They saw his imperious manner, his impatient gestures, they saw all the alive dominance of him in his black armor. He pointed at the open gate through which we had all crowded to safety.

“There is no danger. The swarthriders are gone! Roko,” he bellowed at one of his Kataki mercenaries,

“ride out and show these cowardly fools.”

Obediently the Kataki, Roko, turned his zorca and rode back out through the opening. Now many faces turned in the last of the light to watch. Tarkshur spurred across.

Practically no time passed.

Roko’s zorca sprang back through the opening. His head was up and his spiral horn was broken.

Roko sat, clamped into the saddle, his tail wrapped around the zorca’s body like a second girth.

Through Roko’s neck above the gilt rim of his iron corselet a long barbed arrow stuck wickedly. Flaming rags wrapped about the arrow burned up into his predatory Kataki face.

The silver-haired woman’s voice keened out, chillingly.

“In fire and steel will you all die outside this Moder.”

“Take us in! Take us in!” The screams pitched up into frenzy. Men were beating at the closed far doors.

“Of your own free will?”

I was looking at Tarkshur the Lash. He looked sullen, vicious, crafty. There was no fear there. He shouted with the rest.

“Yes, yes! Of our own free will!”

The shrieking mob clamored to be allowed in — of their own free will. The suns sank, shafting ruby and emerald fires in brilliant dying sparkles against an inscription deeply incised in the rock above the gateway. The woman lowered her arms.

Slowly, the gates opened.

“I, for one,” declared Nodgen, spitting, “say I do not enter this place of my own free will.”

“Nor me,” said Hunch.

We were moving forward with the rabble all jostling and pushing to get through the inner door before the swarthriders roared in to shaft the laggards. It seemed important to me to say aloud that I, too, did not enter here of my own free will.

I said it.

We shuffled along, as always caring for the draught animals and beasts of burden in our care. Beyond the arched gateway stretched a wide area, shadowed with dappled trees and vines, with stone-flagged squares upon the ground, and the hint of stone-built stalls at either side. Here we halted, looking about, seeing yet another gate in the far wall.

We were simply slaves and so at intemperately bellowed orders fruitfully interlarded with that vile word

“Grak!” we set about making camp, caring for the animals, preparing food for our masters. These great ones went a way apart and conferred together. There were nine expeditions in the greater expedition, nine supreme great ones to talk, one to the other as they pleased.

Nine is the sacred and magical number on Kregen.

Among the superb establishments of these masterful folk with their remudas of zorcas and totrixes and swarths, their fine coaches, their wagons and strings of pack animals, their multitude of slaves, it amused me greatly that old Deb-Lu-Quienyin with his preysany to ride, his pack calsany and his little Och slave, must be accepted on terms equal to one of the nine principals.

Against the high glitter of the stars the overreaching mass of the hill lifted above us. The Moder appeared to be moving against the star-filled night, to lean and be ready to fall upon us. The slaves did not often look up.

The hushed conference of the nine masters broke up. Tarkshur came strutting back to our camp and bellowed for Galid the Krevarr, the Jiktar of his five remaining paktuns. At least, I assumed they were mercenaries, although they might well be his retainers from his estates in unknown Klardimoin.

What Tarkshur had to say was revealed to the slaves after we had all eaten. The meal was good — very good.

Then we were paraded for the master.

He came walking down toward us, and the Maiden with the Many Smiles shone down into the stone-walled area and illuminated the scene with her fuzzy pinkish light.

He halted before the first in line, a shambling Rapa with a bent beak. To him, Tarkshur dealt a savage buffet in the midriff. The slave collapsed, puking. Tarkshur snorted his contempt and walked on to the next. This was Nodgen. Tarkshur struck him forcefully in the guts, and Nodgen grunted and reeled, and remained upright.

“Him,” said Tarkshur.

Galid and the other Katakis shepherded Nodgen the Brokelsh to one side.

Along the rank Tarkshur went, striking each man. He chose nine who resisted his blow. Nine slaves, in their tattered old gray slave breechclouts, stood to one side. I was one of the nine.

“Now get your heads down. Sleep. Rest. In the morning — we go up!”

And, in the morning — we went up.

Each superior master with his retainers had chosen nine slaves — excepting the old Wizard of Loh, of course. Up the stony path we trailed, toiling up as the suns brightened.

Below us the panorama of the Humped Land spread out, hundreds of Moders rising like boils from the sunken plain.

Each slave was burdened with a piled-up mass of impedimenta. I carried an enormous coil of rope, a few picks and shovels, twisted torches, and a sack of food. Also, around my shoulders on a leathern strap dangled half a dozen water bottles. It was a puffing old climb up, I can tell you.

We were venturing into a — place — of gold and magic and it occurred to me to wonder who would return alive.

Occasionally I caught a glimpse of Deb-Lu-Quienyin straggling on. He used a massive staff to assist him.

Also, he had four new slaves and I guessed he had borrowed these from one of the other expeditions and my guess — proved right — was that they came with the compliments of Prince Nedfar.

Much vegetation obscured our view but at last we came out to a cleared area at the top and saw a square-cut gateway leading into the base of the tower-pinnacled building crowning the Moder. The gates were of bronze-bound lenk and they were closed.

It was daylight, with the twin suns shining; yet the light that grew in a niche above the gate shone forth brightly. Against the glow a woman’s figure showed — a woman with translucent golden hair. Her voice was deeper, mellower than her sister’s who guarded the lower portal.

“You are welcome, travelers. Do you desire ingress?”

The shouts of “aye” deafened.

“Of your own free will?”

“Aye!” and “Aye!”

“Then enter, and fare you well.”

The gates opened. We passed through. The moment the last person entered the hall beyond the gates, lit by torches, the gates slammed. Their closing rang a heavy and ominous clang as of prison bars upon our hearing.

I, for one, knew we wouldn’t get out as easily as we had entered.

The devil of being a slave, inter alia, is that you just don’t know what is going on.

The hall in which we stood was coated thickly with dust. Many footprints showed in the dust — and while most of them pointed toward the double doors at the opposite side, four or five sets angled off to the corners — and without moving from where we stood we could see the dark and rusty stains on the stone floor at the abruptly terminated ends of the footprints.

At the side of the door an inscription was incised.

Useless for me to attempt to render it into an Earthly language. The problem lay in the language itself, a kind of punning play on words. The nine superior masters conferred, and now I could get a closer look at them all. Already I had met four of them. The flying man clashed his wings in frustration, trying to work out the riddle. The Sorcerer of the Cult of Almuensis gave a sarcastic and knowing chuckle, and expounded the riddle in a breath. The other three of the nine I did not know. One was a woman. One was the tall and upright swarth rider I had seen attempting to guard our flanks. The last was an enigma, being swathed in an enveloping cloak of emerald and ruby checks, diamonds of artful color that dazzled the eyes.