The Feline Wizard (19 page)

“Who were kin to the soldiers' wives!” Balkis exclaimed.

“They were indeed, so the grandchildren saw no reason to fight their cousins. They made peace, and a few of the great-grandchildren married one another—so by the time my father was born, we were so much a mixture of raider, soldier, and mountaineer that we know not to whom we should swear allegiance.”

“And therefore govern yourselves, and resist all who would conquer you?” Balkis asked with a smile.

“We do, though few care to try.” Anthony still gazed at the echoing battle below. “My folk are a stubborn and stiff-necked breed, and yield to death rather than to kings—as the raiders did when they fought this battle.”

“Whereas the Macedonians we see here are bound by loyalty to Alexander's commands,” Balkis said softly, suddenly understanding, “and will therefore not willingly yield a single inch.”

“Even so,” Anthony agreed. “Therefore they stand here, obedient to the emperor's will, and every night their ghosts fight the battle again.”

“You do not mean that each side is convinced that if they refight it often enough, they will finally win!”

“So it seems.” Anthony's mouth pulled into a hard smile, gaze still on the ancient and current battle. “So the legend says. I had never thought it anything but an old wives' tale, a fable to make people realize they had to let go of the past and think of the future, but…”

His voice trailed off. Balkis watched him a moment, then finished the sentence for him. “It is no fable, but truth.”

“It would seem so,” Anthony said. “Alas! My poor ancestors! If their descendants marrying and becoming one people cannot end their fighting, what can?”

“Nothing,” Balkis whispered, but she nonetheless wracked her brains as the two of them sat, spellbound and shivering, watching the ghosts slash and stab at one another until all had fallen. Even then she could think of no way to weave a spell to stop this ghostly carnage, and decided that this was a task for a priest, not a wizard.

It seemed an age before the battle sounds died away. Then Anthony spoke, face somber. “It is done. Let us leave this place.”

But Balkis clasped his hand, looking back at the valley floor. “What noise is that?”

Anthony listened. It was soft at first, only a crunching here and there, but it grew in number and volume—ripping sounds, slurping and gulping, slobbering and grinding. He shuddered. “It is the carrion-eaters, come to clear away the ghost-flesh.”

“But I see nothing!”

“They, too, are ghosts,” Anthony said grimly, “and I never yet knew a vulture or jackal that did not hide from sight when it could.”

Balkis buried her face in Anthony's tunic. “I dare not see their work being done!”

“Nor I.” Anthony hid his face in her hair, and they sat shielding one another against the night, but the sounds of the gruesome banquet made them shiver until the horrid feast ended.

Finally the sky lightened with false dawn; finally the obscene noises dwindled. Still they sat huddled together, and neither could have said when sitting became lying, when shuddering stilled and warmth and solace grew, for at last they slept in one another's arms.

Balkis woke when the rays of the setting sun bathed her face. She sat up, blinking in confusion as she looked about, then remembered how she had come to this place of trees and grass in the middle of a desert, and shivered. She shook Anthony gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead! Wake up and tell me that last night's memories are only a nightmare.”

“Hmmm? Wha … ? Nightmare?” Anthony sat up, blinking, and raised a hand to cover a yawn. “What nightmare is this? That I travel with you? I cry your pardon for the unpleasantness, but it is—”

“No, dunderhead!” Balkis gave him a poke in the ribs. “Fresh wakened, and you jest with your first yawn!” But she smiled. “The phantom army, and the ghastly banquet! Tell me that those were only a dream!”

“The battle!” Anthony came wide-awake. “No, I fear my ancestors were real.”

“But their ghosts?”

Anthony shrugged. “Are any ghosts real? Still, we did see them—it was no dream.”

“No, I fear not” Balkis gazed off toward the valley.

“Well, there is one way to tell,” Anthony said. “We have only to wait and listen. If we hear shouting and the clash of steel, we will know.”

Balkis glanced at the desert beyond and thought of the empty miles stretching northward. “Should we take the time?”

“An extra hour out of several months?” Anthony asked. “I think we can spare it.” He unstoppered the waterskin and took a drink, then frowned and shook it. “We should take time to climb down to the stream in any event—we do not wish to march dry.”

Balkis shuddered at the thought.

“Come, we need not stay longer than the first calling of trumpets,” Anthony said.

“True,” Balkis admitted, and together they climbed down to fill their waterskins, but climbed well back up the hillside while there was still some sunset left—at least high on the slope. There they turned to look down into the valley, already deep in gloaming—and froze, staring.

“What is that which moves so quickly?” Balkis asked.

“It is the size of a fox,” Anthony offered.

“No fox I've ever seen had a jet-black coat!”

“No, nor was ever so shiny.” Anthony stiffened. “Tell me I should not be so surprised—we are only one valley away, and the ants must forage here now and again.”

“Surely they must,” Balkis agreed, but neither of them believed it.

They could not deny, though, that the creature they saw scuttling abut the valley floor was definitely a giant ant. As they watched, it cast about, probing the air with its antennae, north to east, east to south, south to west—and stopped, facing them. It lifted its head…

“Be ready to run.” Anthony's hand tightened on hers.

The ant shot forward—but a form rose from the ground before it, a form in leather armor, battle-axe swinging. The ant hesitated, then attacked the shape with fury—and went right on through. It halted in confusion, turning back—and saw a figure in brazen armor advancing on it with a spear. Instantly the ant charged, tearing through the apparition, then pausing in consternation, but only for a moment before another specter came running in its direction while a fourth came hurtling from the other direction. The ant whirled, tearing at the spectral warriors, about and about in a frantic dance of frustration, never able to come to grips with its foes.

Anthony and Balkis watched in amazement as the ant ran to and fro upon the ancient battlefield and the twilight faded. When the stars came out and full darkness descended in the valley, the ant froze for a moment, then dove at the ground beneath it, tearing and hurling, digging itself a deep, deep burrow, as it always did at night.

“It might bring up gold!” Anthony started down the hill.

“And it might not!” Balkis caught his arm. “You might stay there all night waiting, until your ancestors drove you mad! Come, say a prayer of thanks to them for distracting the little monster, and let us flee while we can!”

“Oh, very well!” Anthony grumbled. “But you will never be rich, Balkis, if this is how you treat your opportunities.”

“You will quickly be dead, if this is how you treat yours,” Balkis retorted, and tugged at his arm. “Let us be gone from this place!”

“Let us indeed.” Anthony tore his gaze away from the new anthill and turned to follow her up the slope. At the top, he looked back and stood gazing at the glowing battle in the bottom of the valley.

Balkis observed the somber set of his face and said gently, “It was no mere nightmare after all.”

“No, it was not.” Anthony turned his face to the desert, and the future. “Let us go, sweet Balkis. It is not good to become mired in the past.”

By degrees the arid land became more green; thorn and scrub gave way to grass and shrub. They began to find trees, first wide apart and stunted, but closer and closer together as they went farther north, until they found themselves roaming through a savannah with streams only a little more than a day's travel apart. A week after they had left the valley of ghosts, the nights were no longer so chill nor the days so unbearably hot, and they dared to begin traveling by day. So they were walking beneath a mid-morning sun when they met the urgent traveler.

They could tell he was in a hurry because he ran a hundred yards, then walked a hundred, and as he came toward them, alternately running and walking, Anthony took out his sling and fitted a stone to its cup. “What chases him, to make him run so?”

“Whatever it is, he must rest and take nourishment, or it will catch him.” Balkis held up a hand as the man approached. “Stay, stranger, and break bread with us.”

“You have bread?” The man skidded to a halt, and Balkis
saw that he wore only a tunic, cloak, and sandals, with no pack and not even a wallet tied at his waist.

“You have been long without food,” Anthony guessed, and took off his pack to dig out biscuit and dried meat. “Is the land so empty of game as that?”

“I dare not tarry to hunt, let alone take time to roast my catch! Thank you, stranger, and bless you!” The traveler all but snatched the food from Anthony's fingers and began to tear at it with his teeth.

“What pursues you with such greed that you dare not stop to eat?” Balkis asked

“Women, maiden.” The traveler shuddered at the memory. “Warrior women.”

Balkis and Anthony exchanged a startled glance, then turned back to the traveler. “Tell us of them,” Balkis urged, “for we mean to go farther north. Dare we journey through their country?”

“
You
may,” the traveler said, but jerked his head at Anthony. “You, however, dare only go there if you can run very quickly— or have far greater willpower than any man I've ever met!”

“Why should I need willpower to travel?” Anthony asked, bewildered.

“Because you will so lose yourself in pleasure that you will forget to count,” the stranger said. “You will overstay your nine days, as I have, and will have to flee for your life.”

Balkis felt a frisson of alarm, a thrill of danger, but Anthony was intrigued. “What nine days? And what pleasure could so ensnare a man that he forgets to guard his life?”

“Women,” the man said again, simply, “warrior women,” then added, “Without their armor, at play.”

In Balkis, frisson turned to apprehension, but Anthony looked even more interested. “I would have thought that warriors' play was athletic contests.”

“You could call it that” the traveler said with a sardonic smile, then took another mouthful and explained through his chewing, “You are about to enter the country of the Grand Feminie, young people. It extends for forty-two days'journey, and if you must go north, you must go through it, or take twice as long skirting it through the desert that lies to either side. It
is a nation of warriors, female warriors, and no males are allowed to dwell within its boundaries, nor have been for hundreds of years.”

“Hundreds of years?” Balkis frowned, puzzled. “Then where do new wairiors come from?”

“From the brief stays that men are allowed.” Again, the stranger managed a sardonic smile between mouthfuls. “No male may stay with them more than nine days, during which time he may carouse and amuse himself as much as he wishes and with as many different women as he can. Thus do they conceive”

Balkis's feeling of foreboding deepened. “What if he should overstay his time?”

“In such a case, the man will die—and therefore will I leave you.” The stranger stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you for your food, good young people— but now I must flee.” With no more ado, he took to his heels and ran.

Balkis turned to Anthony. “Let us go around this country, I pray you! No matter how many months it takes, it will be far safer!”

Anthonv frowned. “I have never seen you fear anything before.”

“True enough,” Balkis admitted, “but I fear… I fear…”

“Not their women!”

“Not their fighting, no. Oh Anthony, please…”

High-pitched, ululating cries filled the air, and a dozen female warriors burst into sight around a curve in the road. They were armed like the Macedonian ghosts, with crested helmets, brazen breastplates, brass-braced kilts, greaves, and armored sandals. They caught sight of the fleeing traveler and doubled their pace.

“Aside, quickly!” Balkis pulled Anthony off the road.

It did no good—as the women warriors came even with them, their leader barked a command, and four of them stopped, looking darkly disappointed, and challenged the companions. Their accent was thick, but Balkis could understand it—the language of Maracanda had become the international tongue of
these central lands. “I am Ramba, dozen-leader of Queen Harikot,” the soldier said. “Why do you walk this road?”

A flippant answer came to Balkis's lips, but before she could defy the soldier, Anthony said, in tones of respect, “We travel to Maracanda, dozen-leader. May we pass through your country?”

“Aye, if you can come and go in nine days.”

“But your land is forty-two days across!” Balkis protested.

There was a cry of despair down the road. Balkis and Anthony spun and saw the soldiers wrestling the stranger to the ground. Balkis whirled back to the dozen-leader. “Spare him, I pray you! He is not an evil man!”

“You must speak to the gross-leader about that,” the dozen-leader said, her face granite.

As the warriors came back to them with the stranger struggling in their midst, Balkis cried to him, “I had not thought that giving you food would have slowed you to your death! Your pardon, I pray thee!”

“Given, bless you,” the man groaned. “I had not known they were so close. Believe me, the ten minutes I spent with you would have made no difference.”

Half the young women stared at him, then glanced uncertainly at one another.

“You gave this man aid?” asked a tall, older woman with cold gray eyes and a stern expression.

“I did, and I would do so again!” Balkis declared. “He is not evil, only weak to temptation! Spare him, I pray you!”

“He is lustful and licentious,” the woman said grimly, “as greedy for our bodies as a miser for gold. Had he not lost his head in our embraces, he would have kept count of the days and departed in time to be safe. Indeed, if he had not indulged himself so freely with us, I have no doubt he would have had strength enough to run faster and make his escape.”