A Triumph of Souls (28 page)

As they descended from the ridge, the temperature rose
perceptibly. Beneath their feet, the unstable surface made for poor walking. Except for the sure-footed cat, each of them
slipped on more than one occasion. Conscious of the danger, however, no one suffered any injury. Everyone realized it would
be an especially bad place to incur a twisted ankle or broken bone.

“This must remind you of home, Etjole.” Pebbles sliding and bouncing away from beneath his sandals, Simna picked his way carefully
down the slope.

“Not really.” Ehomba used his spear to steady himself on the steeper portions of the descent. “It is true that the land of
the Naumkib is dry, but there are many rivers that flow through it to the sea, and springs even along the beach that bring
fresh water from distant mountains. The hills behind the village receive rain in the winter and heavy sea fog in the summer,
so that there is almost always grass to be found somewhere. There are trees in the ravines and washes, and plenty of game.”
Sweat coursing down his face from the exertion of the descent, he paused and nodded at the terrain that lay before them.

“The country of the Naumkib is dry, but much cooler than here until and unless one travels far to the east. This is land that
has been tortured.”

They drank their fill and topped off their water bags from springs that bubbled from the base of the ridge. From there until
they reached the mountains there was a real chance they would find no more water. The deepest gullies separating the low,
rounded, multicolored hills held out the promise of moisture in their depths: The vegetation that grew there was proof enough
of that. But it might well lie far below the surface, within reach of ancient roots
but not desperate hands. They could not count on supplementing their supplies for many days.

“We’ll need to watch what we eat as well,” Simna commented as they headed off into the rolling, uneven terrain that lay ahead.

“Dry country often yields a surprising amount of food.” Ehomba maintained a steady pace, his face a picture of determination.
“Plants that look dead sometimes provide unexpected nourishment, and where there are plants there is at least some game.”
He nodded to his left. “We are lucky to have with us a game-catcher supreme.”

“I can only kill what’s there.” The litah acknowledged the compliment with a terse grunt.

“Hunkapa hunt too,” the hirsute hulk bringing up the rear added plaintively.

“Hoy, I’m sure you’re well skilled at sneaking up on small burrowing creatures,” Simna commented sarcastically. “No matter.
We all need to be sharp of eye and alert of ear ‘til we’re through this hell, lest we overlook even one opportune meal.”

Ehomba’s dry-land lore and Ahlitah’s hunting prowess notwithstanding, they could not eat what they could not find. In the
days that followed, no game of any size showed itself, and the nearest thing they found to a water hole was a damp depression
in the sand between two hills. Digging exposed only more sand; moist, but not drinkable.

The herdsman did locate a colony of honey ants. Digging out the bulbous bodies of the storage workers, he showed his companions
how to make use of them.

“Hold them up by their heads, like this,” he explained as he demonstrated, “and bite off the sugar-water-filled abdomen.”
This he proceeded to do, flicking the useless head and thorax aside when he was through.

Simna swallowed uncomfortably. But after trying one of the bloated insects, he found the sensation in his mouth surprisingly
agreeable. The taste of the taut, thumbnail-sized golden sphere was sweet and refreshing.

It would have taken a dozen such colonies to slake their thirst, but the supplement to their dwindling reserve was welcome,
and the sugar gave a boost to their energy and spirits.

Both had waned considerably when Ehomba, following a gully that led slightly northwestward, stepped around a sandstone column
and ran into the demon.

Though understandably startled, the unflappable herdsman quickly regained his composure. Bunching up behind him, his companions
were less sanguine. For its part, the demon regarded them warily but without fear. After all, there was very little reason
for a true demon to dread the living. Protected as they were by all manner of spells and enchantments, there was not much
a mortal could inflict on their person in the way of bodily harm.

Realizing this full well, Simna pressed close to his tall friend. Knowing that his own weapons would be useless against such
a profoundly base creature, the herdsman’s hand did not stray in the direction of his weapon. Swords and knives were no match
for the hexes of the underworld. Fortunately, he was traveling in the company of one of the few people he had ever met who
possessed the knowledge to ward off evil enchantments. Assuming, of course, that Ehomba had been lying to him all along about
not being a wizard.

On the other hand, he decided as he edged out slightly
from behind the herdsman’s shadow, the appearance of this particular demon, though its ancestry and origins were never in
doubt, was not of a kind to inspire immediate and unremitting terror. Above its slick bald forehead it wore a wide-brimmed
hat, battered and notched, with two holes cut out to allow its horns room to protrude. The arrangement had the added benefit
of helping to keep the hat on the apparition’s head in a high wind. Needless to say, it was not perspiring.

In addition to the dusty hat, the creature wore long pants in the back of which a hole had been cut to allow the curling,
pointed tail room to roam. Trouser legs were tucked into calf-high boots. Above the belt the hairy chest was partially covered
by a checked vest of many pockets whose contents Simna decided he would prefer to remain in ignorance of. A red bandanna around
its neck was decorated with an embroidered pattern of interlocked human figures writhing in torment. On its back it carried
a huge pack secured with multiple straps of well-worn leather. Tied to the pack were a pick and two shovels, a shallow, broad-bottomed
iron pan, and a tent and bedroll. The bloated, oversized load would have taxed the strength of Hunkapa Aub. Supernatural strength
and stamina notwithstanding, it clearly taxed the endurance of the red-faced phantasm.

Herdsman and demon considered one another. Then the profane apparition clasped one clawed, long-fingered hand to its exposed
scarlet chest and shivered.

“Sure is cold out today.”

“We find it tolerable,” Ehomba replied.

“You would.” The demon began slapping its arms against its sides. It momentarily tripled their length so that it could also
slap at its back and lower legs.

For once, Simna had nothing to say, preferring to let his lanky companion conduct the entire conversation. If he could at
that moment have rendered himself wholly invisible, he would gladly have done so. While the physical appearance of the demon
was no more abhorrent than that of certain bureaucrats the swordsman had known, its face was a mask of pure horror, a promise
of all the torments and suffering the netherworld was heir to. One joked with such a hideous specter at the risk of one’s
life and limb.

Yet while his companions remained anxiously in the background, Ehomba took a step forward and calmly extended a hand. “We
are strangers in this blasted country, and could do with some information.”

“Information you want, is it?” Grinning to reveal a maw packed with jumbled, broken, sharp-pointed teeth, the bare-armed fiend
accepted the proffered fingers, shaking but leaving them attached to Ehomba’s hand. “I’ll help if I can. I have to say, your
ignorance does you proud. Like now, for instance.” The clawed hand suddenly tightened around Ehomba’s.

Instantly, steam began to rise from the virulent grip. Simna started to shout a warning that was already too late, then caught
his breath. As the herdsman continued to sustain the handshake, the slitted yellow eyes of the demon began to widen. Eventually
it released its hold.

To the amazement of fiend and friends alike, Ehomba’s palm showed no evidence of damage from the searing handclasp. He smiled
slightly. “It is also hot in my homeland. My skin is toughened from season after season of moving rocks that have lain in
the sun for many years.”

The demon nodded understandingly. Turning to one side, it spat out a soggy blob of brimstone. The impious
spittle sizzled where it struck the sand. The chaw that bulged one of the creature’s cheeks must have been composed of solid
sulfur.

“I’d heard that some mortals could handle heat better than others. You must be one of them. What brings you to the Tortured
Lands?”

Ehomba nodded in the direction of the demon’s enormous pack. “I might ask you the same question.”

“Fair enough.” The back of a scaly red arm wiped thick, blubbery red lips. “I’m a prospector, plying my trade. It is by nature
a solitary business, only rarely rewarding, but it suits me.”

This was something Simna ibn Sind felt he could relate to. Stepping out from behind Ehomba, he essayed his most comradely
smile. “What is it you’re prospecting for out in this desolation? Gold, I would imagine. Or silver, or another of the precious
metals? Gems, perhaps, or the rare ingredients for arcane powders and potions?”

The horned skull shook slowly from side to side. “I am digging for lost souls.” Once again extending an elastic arm farther
than was natural, the demon fumbled at its pack. “Exhumations have been meager these past few weeks, but there’s a little
color in the pouch. Care to have a look?” From a small, tightly fastened, intricately inscribed leather bag there arose a
faltering chorus of moans.

“That’s all right.” Making motions of demurral, the momentarily confident swordsman once more hastily took refuge alongside
his lean companion.

With a shrug, the demon retracted his arm. “I understand. There’s really not much to look at. Fair size, decent opacity. Impure,
of course, or they wouldn’t be here.”
Perking up, he smiled horribly. “I’ve been following traces for some time, hoping to hit a vein.”

Not mine, Simna hoped feelingly. Despite the veneer of civility that overlay the ongoing exchange of pleasantries, he could
not escape the feeling that if Etjole Ehomba were not standing between him and the eager phantasm, he and the others would
already be staked out on the searing sand with their body cavities ripped open and their entrails exposed to the sun. Why
this should be he could not have said. The herdsman had evinced no special protection, had thrown up no obvious defenses.
But Simna was certain their continued salvation was due solely to the herdsman’s presence among them. In this he believed
as firmly as he believed in his own existence. Perhaps more so.

It was plain to see that even as they conversed amiably, the demon was sizing them up and paying particular attention to Ehomba.
Either there was something about the herdsman’s soul that rendered it unattractive, or else it was shielded by means and methods
beyond the ken of a wandering swordsman. Whatever it was, Simna was exceedingly grateful for its existence, because it appeared
to be protecting not only its owner, but his friends as well.

“I’m Hoarowb.” The creature did not extend its hand again. “What do you want with the Blasted Lands? You don’t look like soul
miners to me.”

“We are not,” Ehomba admitted quietly as he leaned slightly on his spear for support.

“That’s good. I don’t much care for competition in my territory. Rich pockets of lost souls are few and far between, and it’s
the smart fiend who keeps their location a secret.”

“Our business does not lie in this country.” Raising his
spear, the herdsman pointed to the distant, glistening crags of the Curridgians. “We travel through to the mountains, and
beyond.”

Sniffing like a pig snuffling for offal, the demon extended its head forward in the direction of the spearpoint. “Interesting
poker you’ve got there. Positively rank with dead millennia.” Again the hideous grin. “I don’t suppose you’d consider trading
for it? I have a couple of really quality souls, prime stuff. Fetch a good price on the nether-market.”

“Thank you, no.” Ehomba smiled to show that he was not offended by the offer. “I need all my weapons, and I already have a
soul.”

The demon spat a gooey glob of yellowish brimstone to one side. It struck an ankle-high clump of green weed bursting with
tiny purple flowers and promptly set it ablaze. “Everyone can use a spare soul or two. Comes in handy at the moment of Determination.
But never mind. I can sense that you’re not the trading type.” Peering around the herdsman, the demonic countenance focused
on Simna.

“You, on the other hand, smell like someone I could do business with.”

“Maybe another time.” The swordsman ventured a wan smile. “My soul’s all tied up just now.” He pointed to his companion. “With
him.”

“Pity.” Straightening, the demon smiled affably at Ehomba. “I could split your sternum, tear out your heart, and leave you
to bleed to death here in the sand.” He shuddered slightly. “But I can tell that you’d spoil it all by resisting, and anyway
it’s too cold out this morning for
sport. I’ve a ways to go before I dig a hole and make camp.”

“Since you are not going to kill us,” the herdsman replied good-naturedly, “could you tell us how far it is to the nearest
water hole?”

“Water hole?” The demon eyed him in disbelief, then burst out roaring. It was laughter wild and withering enough to scald
bare skin. Indeed, unprotected by fur or learning, Ehomba had to turn away from it to keep himself from being scorched.

“There’s no water holes in this country. Hot springs, yes, and boiling mud pots, and steaming alkali lakes a being can take
a proper bath in—but water holes?” One crimson, clawed finger elongated enough to reach up and over the specter’s skull, pointing
to the northwest.

“Only one place you might find running water, and that’s Skawpane. They got everything in Skawpane. Another month or so and
I’ll be due for a visit there myself, depending on how well the prospecting goes.” From the vicinity of the occulted leather
bag, small screams bereft of all hope seeped futilely. Simna ibn Sind shuddered. The chill he felt had nothing whatsoever
to do with the temperature, perceived or otherwise.