D & D - Red Sands (20 page)

"Ah, a principled fellow," Marix said under his breath.

Uramettu picked the gnole up by the front of its vest and hurled it down the mountainside. She picked up the crossbow. The stock had smashed when the gnole dropped it. She threw it after its owner.

"We'll have to be more watchful," said Tamakh. "Gnoles are vicious, but they're not unreasoning brutes. They're cunning, strong, and see as well as wolves by night. Some of us will have to stay awake and stand guard."

"I will," said Marix, "if someone will lend me an honest sword. Magic bows are not for me."

Jadira gave him the scimitar she carried. "I'll stay up with you," she said.
"I
've slept enough for one night."

With Uramettu's spear in hand, Jadira sat back to back with Marix on the path. Silent wariness surrounded them, and they remained alert till daybreak, when a heavy fog formed on the mountainside and enveloped them in damp and clinging mist.

Tamakh had fits of sneezing as they descended to the narrow valley between the two ranges of the Shammat. Nabul claimed they were caused by too many olives and dates. Marix diagnosed the sneezing as an ague brought on by the radical change in temperature. The poor priest wheezed and sneezed, his nose and cheeks getting redder and redder.

The trail bottomed out on a gravel road, well-worn but untended for a long time. The hungry donkeys cropped the grass that grew among the pebbles. Jadira said to let them graze; it might be a while before the animals got fresh, free provender again.

A definite tang laced the gray fog. Uramettu put her nose in the wind and said, "Smoke. Wood fire."

"Cooking?" asked Nabul hopefully.

She wrinkled her nose. "I think not. It's a dry fire."

The smoke smell came from the south, so they drove in the donkeys and headed that way. A stone's throw short of a league, they came in sight of thatched roofs and stone animal pens. It was a village of some twenty houses. An obelisk erected in the square in the time of Sultan Wa'drillah identified the place as Chatal.

No man nor beast stirred in the single street of Chatal. The companions entered cautiously, holding their weapons and taking care not to give any alarm. The goat and sheep pens were empty. The shuttered windows of the houses showed no signs of life. Jadira, who was leading, stopped in the middle of the road and pointed at the chimney of one house. "There's the fire."

They knocked on the door of the house. Smoke wafted lazily in the damp air, sometimes dipping into the street. Tamakh sneezed. When they heard a stirring in the house, Marix and Nabul pushed open the door and went in. The others followed.

Inside they found half a dozen villagers barely alive. Three men slept like the dead, never noticing the sudden intrusion. A woman leaning against the chimney tended the weak fire. She was feeding it from a mound of filthy rags. Two children clung to her legs. Their faces, like all those in the house, were pinched with hunger.

"Greetings. We mean you no harm," said Marix. He dug an elbow in Nabul's ribs and the thief echoed his sentiments. The woman regarded them listlessly and did not reply.

"What's the matter with them?" Marix said. "Tamakh, are they bewitched?"

The priest sniffled and leaned over one of the sleeping men. He raised one of the man's eyelids. The fellow moaned and rolled over.

"Not bewitched, starved," said Tamakh. "For some time, too, I'd say."

"Eighteen days," murmured the woman by the fire.

"What?" Jadira sat on the hearth beside her. "You haven't eaten in eighteen days?"

The woman nodded. Her head sagged, and Jadira had to hold her chin up to hear her faint words. "That's when the horde of Ubrith Zelka came."

"The gnoles?"

Nod. "An army of beast-men, discharged by some northern warlord," the woman said. She swallowed dryly. "They killed our hetman and ran off all our stock. What food we had was stolen. Since then we've lived only on roots and gleanings from our gardens."

Jadira waved to Uramettu, who was carrying the food bag. She handed it to Jadira. "Find a pot," the nomad woman said. "We'll boil a pudding for these poor people."

Nabul rolled out a formidable iron kettle. Marix dipped water from the rain barrel and half-filled the pot. Into this Jadira dumped dates, honey, and torn-up bits of wheel bread. Uramettu hung the weighty pot on its hook over the fire.

"Where's some proper firewood?" Jadira asked the woman. The latter gestured feebly to a bin behind the chimney.

"Why were you burning these rags?" said Marix once the flames were stoked with good hardwood.

"My husband's clothes," was the answer. "He was hetman."

The woman's name was Murjess. The sleeping men were her brothers; the boy and girl her son and niece. Murjess had to be hand-fed the sweet pudding. She quickly gained strength, though, and soon was helping feed the children.

There was a scratching at the door. Tamakh opened it.

Outside were scores of gaunt, gray people of both sexes and all ages. Most held wooden bowls or clay plates. Their hunger-sharpened senses had smelled cooking, and the smoking chimney told them who was doing it.

"Food . . . food ..." they pleaded, pressing in toward the priest.

"What shall I do?" said Tamakh.

Marix tossed him the provision bag. "Hand it out," he said. "After all, it can never be emptied." Jadira was waving frantically for his attention.

"Don't say that!" she warned, too late. The people of Chatal heard. With fevered looks, they lunged for the efreet's magic bag. Tamakh held onto the strap as a dozen scrawny arms wrestled with him for possession of the bag. Sticks appeared, and blows thumped on shuttered windows. One set flew open, and more starving villagers began to climb in.

"They'll outflank us," Marix said. Out of habit, he reached for the scimitar he wore on his belt.

"There's enough for all! Enough, 1 tell you!" lamakh cried.

"They're too hungry to reason," Uramettu said. A pair of young men slipped in the window. She laid one out with a rap of her spear shaft. "They don't care if they kill us, as long as they get the bag!"

"Then give it to them!" said jadira. Murjess was crying, and the children started in, too. Marix parried staff blows, but didn't cut with his blade.

"We can't fight these poor wretches," he said, giving ground. They were all backed up to the hearth. Someone threw a plate. It hit Tamakh squarely in the forehead. He toppled sideways, releasing the bag and bowling over Jadira and Nabul. A low, hoarse cheer filled the throats of the villagers, but a fight began for sole ownership of the food bag. Hoes and staffs cracked on arms and heads.

"Stop! Oof, get off, Tamakh—stop it, I say! The bag can feed you all!" cried Jadira.

Blood flowed in the crowd. The bag was torn from hand to hand, slowly making its way to the door. Once it was outside, the starving mob pulled the leather container to pieces. Olives and dates spilled out. Loaves whirled through the air. Honey spattered in golden droplets to the dirt. The Chatalites scurried and grasped for every morsel, right down to the spilled honey.

When it dawned on them that the bag had been destroyed, a new sound filled their mouths: low, gargling fury, driven by the merest taste of food.

"Time
to go," said Nabul.

"I agree," said Uramettu. She swept her spear point in a wide arc, keeping the snarling mob at bay.

They pushed Tamakh to his feet. Jadira picked up a lost herding staff. She couched it like a lance and murmured, "If we don't depart, these beggars may decide to eat us."

"Here. Over here," said Murjess. She held open a low back door. "Follow the steps up the hillside. There's a cave at the top. It will take you through the mountain."

"Thank you," said Marix. He slipped off the bow with new confidence and led the way. Jadira waited till last.

"Good-bye," she said. "I wish we could have been more help."

"They cut their own throats," said Murjess of her neighbors. "Go, and may the gods bless you for your kindness."

Jadira ducked through the door and was outside. Nabul called, "This way! Here, here!" He was many paces up a steep incline, standing on bare rock. She spied a series of steps cut into the face of the mountain .mil siarted after him.

The Chatal mob tore Murjess's house apart looking for more food. They even broke down the chimney. All this ,accomplished was to set fire to the house. The flames from the burning thatch were a sad beacon to the companions as they climbed to the cave and safety.

Wings

Just after passing the peak of the ridge, Marix paused and waited for his friends to catch up. They straggled up the crude steps panting for breath. Jadira was the last, and she sank down beside Marix. "They're not pursuing," she said gratefully.

"They haven't the strength," he replied.

"Neither—have we," gasped Nabul.

"There's a more serious problem," Tamakh said. "What do we do for food now, with the bag gone and the mountains picked clean by this band of gnoles?"

"Uramettu can—" Nabul began.

"—do little or nothing," the Fedushite finished for him. "These beast-men are like no creatures I have ever encountered. They have wolf-sense and can track me on a moonless night. It would be folly indeed to hunt where they are near."

Jadira looked back over her shoulder. "Is that it then? Are we to end like those villagers down there, starving savages?"

"Not if I can help it!" Marix declared. "By my ancestors, we came through the cauldron of the desert; we can come through the mountains, too! There are but a few days left before High Summer's Day. We—I—must get to Tantuffa before then."

"Well, we can't forage on our backsides," Tamakh said. Using Nabul's shoulder for support, he wobbled to his feet. "Shall we?"

They crossed the spine of the hill and skidded down the slope to a winding goatpath on the west face. Marix set a strong pace for them. Uramettu had no trouble keeping up, but the others faltered, and Marix had to slow his stride. By sundown, they had traveled some fifteen leagues from Chatal, a remarkable distance for footsore and hungry marchers.

There was some discussion about where they should camp. Nabul and Tamakh wanted an easily defensible position, like the pinnacle they'd had the night before. Marix and Uramettu pointed out how easy it would be for a potential enemy to blockade and besiege them in such constricted space.

"Better to camp in the open, where there's room to maneuver," said Marix.

Jadira had the deciding voice. She listened, looked over the terrain, and said, "Let us stay in the open. It will be safer."

"Hardly impartial," muttered Nabul, glancing from Marix to Jadira.

They found a circular space twenty paces wide where coarse wool on the rocks and shrub branches indicated that sheep had been driven. Tamakh sneezed a bit, but they settled down in the center of the clearing. No fire was lit for fear of arousing the marauding gnoles.

Jadira lay awake, looking at the cloud-capped sky. Here and there a star peeked through as winds in the

upper air hurried the soft biack clouds along. She was nearly asleep when a voice said, "Piastre for your thoughts."

It was Marix. "You pay a high price for dreams," she whispered in reply.

"Since I have nothing, I can offer much. What were you thinking?"

"Flying. Isn't that foolish? I was lying here gazing at the sky and thinking about flying."

He slipped an arm under her head, and they nestled together. Marix said, "Do you prefer a winged horse, or a magic chariot?"

"Actually, I was wishing I had wings of my own. Great wide white things, feathered with stiff quills, ai-ha!" She waved an arm through the air with a sweep of imaginary feathers.

"Go t'sleep," rumbled Nabul.

"Sorry," returned Jadira.

"And where would you fly to, my desert falcon?" Marix asked softly.

"The ends of the earth," she said. Jadira turned suddenly and looked Marix in the eye. "But first, to Tantuffa."

"Of course." Marix touched his lips to hers. He snapped his head back. "What was that?" he hissed.

"Too brief a kiss."

"No, listen!"

She strained to hear what had so startled him. Nothing. Nothing. Then—a rustle, a flap. Jadira thought it was cloth snapping in the wind. Only there was no wind.

They sat up. Uramettu was already on one knee, ready to spring. The flapping multiplied until it was all around them. But they could see nothing.

What is it?" howled Nabul.

"Birds?" suggested Tamakh. He ducked his head involuntarily each time the rustling increased in tempo.

"At night?" said the thief.

"Bats, then." Tamakh gave up and threw himself on his face. By this time, Marix had their only sword out and was on his feet in the middle of the clearing.

"All right, whatever you are! Face us or flee like the vermin you are!" he exclaimed. A dark, leathery form hurtled into view, aimed right at him. He swiped at it, missed cleanly, and spun around. Another thing zoomed past his head. The scimitar sliced the air futilely.