Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (8 page)

Golden remembered hearing of the time when
King Tauro, using his army to do the deadly work, had wave after
wave of his civilians driven into the marsh -- farther -- farther
-- soldiers goading them to their almost certain death. Trailing
the doomed populace were officers who marked down the safe places
where people did not sink.

Finding ways through the swamp in this brutal
way meant that the Great Marsh -- Realgar's zone of defense against
the enemy -- would no longer be an impediment should Realgar wish
to go on the attack.

When the dreadful deed was done, only the
king plus a handful of military heads knew the safe trails.

After which, "accidents" began to happen to
the officers who knew how to penetrate the swamp.

Until only the king had knowledge of the
passages through the marsh.

It was Golden's guess that a few Realgar Army
Heads escaped the king's murderous intent, Hooc one of these.

Golden thought about the recent war.
Stil-de-grain against Malachite -- Malachite allied with the evil
Mage-King of the black, inner band of Azare.

He thought of the earlier battle where
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had used his golden, Mage-magic to best the
white forces the evil Auro had sent into Stil-de-grain.

That battle had been to beak-ward, on the
up-light side of Stil-de-grain. Beyond Temple Fulgur.

In contrast, Golden thought of how General
Etexin of Stil-de-grain had mishandled this last campaign.

Trying to relieve Realgar's city of Carotene,
Etexin had shipped his army past the marsh, landing the
Stil-de-grain forces to the swamp's beak-ward side.

The secret offensive failing when the men of
Malachite ambushed Stil-de-grain's forces.

Supposedly laying siege to the City of
Carotene farther on, the enemy had doubled back to surprise the
Stil-de-grain Army at the Carotene river crossing -- so that what
was left of the panic-stricken troops of Stil-de-grain had fled
into the Great Marsh at their back.

The blessing for Golden, was that he had been
wounded in this lighter band, so that his body weighed less than it
did in Stil-de-grain -- in this way, sparing his injured leg.

Still following Hooc through a cloud of
buzzing insects, Golden found the marsh thickening, the orange glow
overhead darkening to burnt umber, the rotting limbs of fallen
trees slowing them even more.

Past the trees and down the left fork of the
branching trail, they came to the bramble-walled enclosure beside
the path that was the irregular's base.

Where were they in the marsh? Golden did not
know, nor did the others. It seemed to Golden that, always, Hooc
led them on confusing pathways so that, if Hooc "died," the rest
would be lost in the swamp forever. Large of body as Hooc was,
marsh-knowledge was Hooc's true strength.

Xevi and Renn sliding back the compound's
wattled fence, the party entered, Golden leading the ponies, Xevi
and Renn pushing the fence-gate closed behind them. Weapons at the
ready, the men checked each wood and plat-grass lean-to, making
certain no enemy occupied their primitive bulwark. For there were
other robber bands in the Great Marsh, making Golden wonder how
long the swamp would be a refuge, even for predators like
these.

After the enclosure had been searched, Golden
led the ponies to the back, to the makeshift stable.

Returned to the open hearth in front, Sassu,
small but quick, had begun to turn a spit of captured meat --
venison, by the smell of it.

The others -- Hooc, Xevi, Iscu and Renn --
were on straw pallets before the heating stones, each drinking from
wine bottles "liberated" from the inn's stores.

Everyone was tired.

No matter what was generally thought,
murdering and stealing was as exhausting as honest work.

No one spoke as Golden slid his pallet from
his peat-sod shack, dragging it to an open place in the circle
about the fire stones. Easing down as best he could, Golden allowed
himself to drop the rest of the way, suppressing the groan that the
short fall cost him.

"Ready," said Sassu, speaking of the meat,
taking it from the heat to hack ragged slices from one end of the
spitted roast, the first piece transferred to the knifepoint of
Renn, Renn taking it to the seated Hooc.

After that, in descending order, the others
were served, Golden the last to receive his share.

The meal over, all retired, Golden was too
exhausted to sleep. Perhaps it was his wound, hot-throbbing as it
sometimes did when he walked a distance (even over spongy ground in
this light-pulling band.)

Awake into the night, Golden tried, again, to
puzzle out what had happened to Stil-de-grain's Mage,
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin.

It was after the Mage's victory over Auro's
charmed army that the Mage, Golden, the girl, and the Weird had
left the Stil-de-grain Army as the army marched back to Xanthin,
the Mage directing his personal entourage to Hero Castle.

It had been at supper there in the castle's
tapestried hall, that the Crystal-Mage had granted Golden's request
to return to Xanthin, there to resume Golden's dungeon-interrupted
search for the green crystal.

After which ... the Mage had ...
vanished!

Or so it seemed.

What was certain was that the Mage did not
accompany the army on its ill-fated journey to Carotene.

Platinia, the child-woman who the Mage
protected, had also disappeared.

As had that ugly hag, the Weird.

All gone or scattered. The Mage. The girl.
The Weird (for which Golden was thankful!) Stil-de-grain's Navy.
The army. Coluth. Etexin.

Considering his present circumstances, how
long would it be before he, too, would "disappear?"

* * * * *

The gentle lapping of the sea was the only
sound Coluth heard as he approached the curving shoreline that
scimitarred dramatically into the sea. Before him in the settling,
ocher-colored fog, the tie-up dock stretched out into the copper
swell.

Eleven merchant ships of Stil-de-grain were
snubbed to the quay, seamen on board finishing the down-light meal,
the sound, a buzz of quiet talk on the dull-orange sea. A quick
laugh. A good-natured shout.

"Capt'n," said Philelph, saluting, Philelph
posted as land guard of the evening.

Gentle Philelph. Always
desiring to be at Coluth's side, first, on the
Roamer
. Here, with these few
ships-in-hiding (the rest of the merchant marine berthed in similar
tie-up docks in Realgar's other claws.)

Coluth did not need to be here by the
tie-dock. There was no danger of attack; certainly not this close
to down-light. It was the sight of ships and the fresh sea smell
that drew him to the water's edge.

With calloused, seaman's hands, he drew his
cloak tighter to his body, the night too cool in the Realgar band
for a Stil-de-grainer.

Shacks lined the gently slanting path, the
shanties cobbled together to house the remnant of Stil-de-grain's
forces. Above and beyond the misshapen huts was the inn,
constructed on the hill's crown to serve the needs of sailors, back
of the inn a corral with fenced in ponies, the ponies for rent as
haulers of inland cargo.

Staying in the inn was the young king, soon
to be asleep in his small bed on the upper floor, unaware that he
was king of ... nothing.

The messenger bird Gagar brought to Coluth
that morning had revealed how beggared the young Yarro had become,
most of Stil-de-grain in enemy hands, Orpiment just surrendered to
the white-faced forces of the evil, Azare band. Likewise, the
whites had overrun -- though, this time not stopping to root up
every blade of grass -- the entire up-light band to the Lake of
Quince. A straggler from across the Tartrazine had reported that a
Malachite vanguard had taken Hero Castle!

True, there were rumors of scattered
resistance from tiny, marauder companies. But the cold truth was
that all that remained of independent Stil-de-grain was here in the
area of the Claws, the Claws protecting the exhausted remnant of
the army's "glorious" expedition to relieve Carotene.

The fleet was also here. What was left of it.
Mostly merchant ships converted into troop transports.

Yes, there was a hardened knot of naval
ships, deadly rams of bronze added to their prows on the advice of
the Mage. But too few to resist the naval forces of Malachite.

Even the capital -- long thought to be safe
on Xanthin Island -- was in enemy hands. (Foreseeing that
eventuality, Coluth had gotten young Yarro away in time.)

All that remained were re-formed companies of
the Stil-de-grain Army -- armed with light weapons only, the
ponderous catapults abandoned in the retreat. A few companies and
the merchant marine. Hiding here in Realgar waters, a light band
place which, Coluth hoped, men from the heavy band of Malachite
would find uncomfortable to conquer.

Down-light was fast coming. The orange sky
over the Realgar band, browning out.

Finished with supper, the oarsmen on the
boats -- as they were, no doubt, doing in other docks in other
claws stretched across the bottom of Sea Minor -- had begun to row
the ships away from land, backing out as far as the tie-ropes would
stretch. At rope's end, they would drop anchors to keep them away
from the dangerous, nighttime shore, at the same time, secure the
ships from drifting out among the deep water monsters of the
nighttime sea.

A land-guard no longer needed, Philelph, at
dock's end, gave his salute then stepped into a punt. Standing in
the small craft with the loose balance of a seaman, Philelph poled
himself over the shallow stretch of foggy water to join his
shipboard comrades for the night.

The darkness settling fast, Coluth must also
return to the sheltering inn.

And yet, he lingered.

His rough hands clasped behind him, Coluth
kept his weathered face turned seaward, his light eyes seeking to
penetrate the increasingly thick mist, now fading to a raw
sienna.

As if ... at any moment ... out of the sea
... would come ... the Mage.

For John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was their only hope,
if hope there was.

The Mage had evaporated ... like an up-light
haze. Rumor said, from Hero Castle. Gone to the other world.

Simple sea captain that he
was, Coluth was less afraid of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin than other men.
Was this because he'd met the Mage before the Sorcerer had been
generally known to be the Mage, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin but a passenger
aboard the
Roamer
?

A strange man who, from the first, asked
unanswerable questions. About something called the "sun." About the
"moon." The "stars." About a phenomena called tides -- all
meaningless queries.

In those days, John-Lyon (as he called
himself) seemed, almost, to be simple. Still, he had pulled his
weight of oar. Truthfully, more than his weight of oar, the Mage
with unusual strength.

Taking into account his ... odd ... qualities
... there was no hint at that time that John-Lyon was
Pfnaravin.

After the naval defeat, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin
-- now Mage of Stil-de-grain -- had appointed Coluth Naval
Head.

Now, the army also defeated, all that
remained was a child-king and some useless ships.

Wanting to consider even ugly possibilities,
what if, dissatisfied with less than complete victory, the forces
of Malachite did came Claw-ward?

Would Coluth have the courage to flee with
the child-king ... to Cinnabar?

Coluth had been to Cinnabar but once. As a
young captain, bent on gaining a prize cargo.

Preparing to travel cross band, he'd tied up,
perhaps in this very sea-claw at this very dock. He did not
remember. It was in a distant time.

Disembarked, he and his men led packed rental
ponies to the Cinnabar border, the orange sky overhead shading
toward the red, becoming a mixed color, like any border sky.

It was Coluth, by himself (for his crew,
though eager to gain the wealth of the Cinnabar, held back,) who
had stepped across the border onto the silk-stacked tiles of the
Cinnabar trading floor. Had immediately felt band-sickness like
he'd never known, becoming so light he feared he would float off
the ground, never to return to earth. Float and float into the sky.
Drift downland, to be lost forever beyond the world's rim!

Steadying himself, signaling to his men
before he lost his courage, they had tossed the trade goods out to
him, the bulky bundles and boxes so light when passing into
Cinnabar that, though several men must lift them from the pony's
backs, Coluth could catch each pack one-handed.

Exchanging the goods for the airy bales of
Cinnabar silk -- of little weight even when in heavier bands -- he
had tossed the tightly packed silk across the border to his
men.

The swap completed, careful not to launch
himself above the ground, Coluth had edged back across the boarder
into the heaver band of Realgar.

There, more solidly on the ground, safe at
last, sweating but buoyed by the awe and admiration of his men,
Coluth had ordered the bales of silk to be strapped on the
ponies.

All secure at last, as quickly as if night
monsters were loosed upon them, Coluth had led his sailors back to
the claw that held their ship.

Scary as it was, it had
been a highly profitable venture: that single journey to the
world's rim paying off the
Roamer
debt.

At no time had any mariners seen the flyers
of the Cinnabar. But .... somewhere ... flying high above?? ...
they had been watching. For if anyone should cheat by leaving too
little trade goods -- Malachite iron and copper, Stil-de-grain
wheat -- there would be no bales of silk, no pepper or other spice,
on the stone floor when next that cheating trader came.