THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (32 page)

Some journeyed from the Hinterlands, harsh and secretive places deep within Aran’s mighty forests; others made their way overland from the northern coasts called the Rock Shores, bleak and barren lands on the northern frontiers, where life was dismal and only the strongest and fittest could survive. Yet others of the Clans traveled in sledges drawn by wolfhounds, across a wilderness of frozen tundra called the Ice Lake, whose very name attested to the lives these rugged men led.

Mostly, though, it was by ship that they came, long, sleek
knaars
that carried them from their homes along the coasts, tartan colors of their Clan flying grandly above the masts. Intricately carved images of dragons, some spitting fire, adorned the spitheads; the ships bore sails of crimson and gold, ocher and blue, all tones chosen by their ancestors long before, when Aran was young and first settled by other tribes of the North.

The meeting place of the
Sklar
was and always had been a huge amphitheater carved out of solid rock, built deep within the hollow of a mountain. Since time immemorial the members had been free to speak openly here, to argue their causes as free men, and to await the
Sklar’
s binding judgments. It had been in this very place that brave Rond the Princeling, son of Ash, tore out the foul heart of the king of the Banes with his knife, and forever rid Aran of its last vestiges of Druid influence. Also at this spot had noble Tule banished the Hawliis by beheading the evil Clanmaster of Skule who had plotted Aran’s defeat. And yes, it had also been here that courageous Rik the Lonely had brought Aran the news of Speca’s fall, pleading with his peers for ships and men to come to their neighbor’s rescue. But Druid magic had cast a fearful pall over the
Sklar
that sleepless night, and when Rik at last did set out, he was forced to do so virtually alone. The Clans had watched silently as his ships set sail into the Eternal Darkness—and no man of Aran ever saw Rik or his men again.

These sagas and a thousand more were told of the
Sklar
and of Aran itself, but tales of the past made little difference now, as the Elders came one by one to hear and see the supposed Friend. They could not think of glories gone by; their only concern was for the strangers in their midst and what their arrival might herald for Aran.

During the handful of days while the
Sklar
was yet being prepared, the Prince and the other passengers were kept carefully guarded in a stone castle close to the meeting place. As for Captain Osari and his brave crew, they had not once been allowed to set foot off the ship. Virtual prisoners themselves, they watched and trembled while a fleet of warships kept them surrounded, blocking the entrance to the inlet and brandishing fearsome weaponry as a warning lest the foreigners prove inhospitable guests.

And then, on the fourth day after the
Vulture
reached Aran, in the cool of the evening, the
Sklar
was ready to sit.

Mariana stepped across the narrow drawbridge, bundled tightly, and waited as stern-faced Aranian guards brought her companions from their separate rooms. She gazed about at the darkening landscape, the high mountains rising majestically above the crenellated walls of the castle. A tall soldier prodded her gently, pointing toward the grim hill. Then they were all led single file to a set of wide stone steps that began far from the walls at the base of the mountain. From the base it was impossible to see the top, and the stairway she was being told to climb seemed to twist and wind ceaselessly as it skirted the rocky slope, disappearing at times behind the ledges and the shadows, only to reappear again and again at distant points.

Two of the guards took the lead, unspeaking and somber, holding their torches well above their heads. The Prince followed close behind, beginning the treacherous ascent. Next came another guard, then Ramagar and the haj. Young Homer was next, and then it was Mariana’s turn. Two more Aranians brought up the rear.

It was a starry evening, and the wind became more and more blustery the higher they climbed. Yet even with the wind the weather had turned considerably milder than on previous days, and Mariana wondered if at last the long winter was drawing to a close, even here in the far North. Some of the steps were crumbling and Mariana allowed one of the guards to help her hold her balance. Then to her surprise she saw that there were handholds embedded into the rock walls, quite a number of them, all of ancient iron, still as strong and as sturdy as the day they were placed.

Mica in the rocks glittered as torchlight briefly reflected along the surface. Lumbering dark shadows danced above and behind her, and she found herself struggling to catch her breath when the steps became sharply steeper. Pausing momentarily, she glanced below and was startled to see just how far she had actually come. Thick forests stretched out before her, ending abruptly at the edge of the fields and pastures. She could easily make out the sweep of the sea, listen to the roar of the surf breaking smoothly against the reefs beyond the cove. The houses of the village glowed with pinpricks of light, appearing so tiny that she was sure a single scoop of her hand could pick them all up.

The guard at her side nudged her, breaking her from her musings. She looked ahead and saw that she had fallen behind the others; Ramagar waited for her at the edge of what seemed to be a narrow plateau set beneath voluminous overhanging ledges. There was also the sound of water coming from somewhere, cascading water. When she finally reached the plateau herself she stared amazed at the sight of a waterfall of melting snow, pouring down from the ledges and over the rocks, and splashing into some unseen pool or lake close to the bottom.

“This way,” said one of the guards, gesturing for them all to step into a cavern easily overlooked in the darkness. The torches lit the granite brightly; the Aranian led them to a hidden flights of steps. These, far narrower than the others, formed a tricky passage right through the walls of the mountain and up to the amphitheater.

Entering the meeting place the small group was greeted by a sudden swell of bright silver moonlight which beamed eerily down upon the hundred or so somber and tight-faced men seated on a wide semicircle of stone benches. Mariana held her breath and swept her glance across them, shuddering as their own gazes fixed upon her and her companions.

The Elders of the
Sklar
sat rigidly in their places, each man dressed in the traditional dark robes of Aran, each with flowing beard and hair, each silently studying the group of strangers set before them.

A guard nudged Mariana gently and she took her place in a single-file line with the others, Ramagar to her right, the haj to her left. The leader of the stern soldiers bowed sweepingly before the august body and gestured the presence of the guests and then of the Prince, the stranger who claimed to be a Friend.

The Sages of the
Sklar,
older than their peers by a generation’s and set apart from the rest along a wide rock slab in the front, nodded severly, several dropping their gaze momentarily as they conferred among themselves in whispers.

Two guards gestured for the Prince to leave the others and brought him to stand before the bench of Sages.

“This is the man, my lords,” the first soldier told them. Then he bowed again and stepped slowly backward into the shadows, his long cloak fluttering behind.

The Prince drew a deep breath as he scanned his questioners, then he set straight his shoulders and stood to his full height. His eyes met the stares he received evenly, returning their obvious skepticism with a look of honesty.

One of the Sages stood, a lumbering, broad-shouldered man, very old, very powerful, and, by the keen look in his gray-steel eyes, very wise.

“You have come to Aran claiming to be a Friend,” he said to the Prince. “And we have received you as a guest. But now we are gathered, and we ask that you prove your worthiness of the title you claim.”

At this the Prince smiled a thin smile and bowed graciously with his hands cupped in a pyramid and his body arching forward.

“Who are you, stranger?” came another voice from the row of Sages. Mariana looked up to see who had spoken but was greeted only by the grim silent faces as before.

“I am who I am,” replied the Prince coolly. “The son of my father and his father before him.”

The standing Sage gripped tightly at his walking stick, his eyes growing wider and ablaze at the guest. He lifted his chin and tossed back a shock of white hair from his craggy face. Mariana could see that this man, whoever he was, was more than a mere spokesman for the others.

The elderly Sage remained fixed in his position, studying the man before him carefully. “And your fathers before you,” he said, “were they, too, Friends of Aran?”

The Prince nodded, looking his grim questioner straight in the eye. “For a thousand years and more, my lord,” he whispered.

This reply caused a slight stir among the members of the
Sklar.
Muffled whispering rippled along the benches, and there was much shaking of heads and scratching of beards.

“Aran has few such Friends remaining,” countered the Sage coyly. “By what right do you make such a claim?”

A slight sneer, mocking and cold, crossed the Prince’s lips. “Has mighty Aran forgotten so swiftly?” he retorted. “What has become of the noble Elders of my father’s father’s time? Where are those among the
Sklar
who would recognize a Friend without the need to first make him their prisoner?”

This caused an even greater stir than before; the members of the
Sklar
were clearly incensed, some clenching their hands into fists and glaring at the brazen stranger with open anger.

It had been difficult for Mariana to follow these curious proceedings, but from this sudden reaction it was apparent that the Prince had insulted them one and all—insulted them purposely—and for what reason she could not imagine. Her companions were also aware of what had happened.

“By the Seven Hells,” growled the haj beneath his breath. “What’s the fellow up to? Infuriating these barbarians will only make matters worse for us. And from everything I’ve seen of this dismal land so far, none of them would lose very much sleep if their axes were sharpened on our throats.”

Mariana deftly hushed the haj with a jab of her elbow and meekly resumed her stance to listen. The Prince, meanwhile, made no gesture to apologize for his rashness; on the contrary, he now stood with his hands on his hips, a smile upon his face, and defiance in his eyes.

At that moment Mariana expected someone to call for the immediate executions of them all, but much to her surprise the band of rugged lords and Sages did nothing. They resumed their silence and their rigid expressions, clearly content to let the Sage do their speaking for them. They folded their arms and leaned forward, weather-burned faces bathed in silver light and blue shadows.

The Sage’s eyes again met the Prince’s and the two men glared at one another in some unspoken form of combat in which neither flinched for a single moment. Then the Sage lifted his hand and beckoned with a bony finger for the stranger to come closer to him.

The Prince did as commanded; his form glowed for a moment, then darkened, as a low, fast-moving cloud crossed the face of the moon.

“You have spoken boldly,” said the Sage, his voice impassive, showing no trace of anger or suspicion. “And rightly so—
if
you are indeed a Friend. But these are grim times for Aran, aye, for all the lands of the North. We can no longer afford the luxury of hospitality such as you ask of us. Aran stands upon the threshold of terrible peril; our fate is yet undetermined, be it good or ill. And alas we must be careful, trusting in no man until his worth has been proven. Can you understand this?”

The Prince lowered his gaze toward the stone floor and sighed. “I know the things you speak of, my lord,” he said in response, this time with humility in his voice. “Perhaps I have asked too much. If so, I beg the
Sklar’
s indulgence with me. For I am just a man—a man who has traveled many years and many roads to be here with you now, and my heart has been saddened to see what I have seen.” He lifted his head and scanned the rows of Elders slowly, noting the pride in every eye, the heroism etched into every face. And he shook his head sadly, truly sorry for his outburst. These brave men had lived under the terrible shadow every day of their lives, lived with the threat of Druid magic without cessation. Who was he, a prince of Speca or no, to come before them and berate them for their mistrust?

“I am no stranger to the Eternal Dark that threatens the world,” he added. “Nor to any of the dangers that Aran must contend with each morning of her existence. Yet …” and here he tilted his head and gazed up at the stars, “yet Aran knows the sun by day, as surely as she knows these very stars by night. In my own home there is neither. Only blackness.”

The old Sage shuffled his feet restlessly and cast a long troubled glance toward his guest. “You have come to us from Speca?” he asked.

The Prince shook his head. “No, lord. I return to Speca. I return to the land of my father and his father before him. I return home.”

The air was as still as ever it becomes upon the windy scapes of Aran. Each member of the all-powerful
Sklar
stared with disbelief as the Prince hung his head low to hide the soft tears falling down his face.

For a long while there was total silence; the Sage leaned heavily on his walking stick, his eyes tightly shut. At last he straightened himself again, and with a deep sigh, he said, “The time has come, Friend, for you to tell us who you are.”

The Prince stood motionless only for a brief moment, then he placed his hand inside his tunic and took out the dagger. Jaws gaped, eyes stared in wonder. The Prince’s hand trembled slightly as he held the blade out for all to see, and the august Sages gasped as Blue Fire began to dance before their eyes; slowly at first, as always, but then more intensely, searing flame crackling out in every direction in the pulsing hues of deepening blue that colored every inch of the mountain’s surface, every nook and every cranny, every recess and every crevice, creeping up and down along the sheer walls, bounding over the ridges and the distant trunks of dark Northern trees, reaching far beyond the huge amphitheater and up into the sky, right across the face of the moon and above and beyond the stars themselves. It was a sight that men of Aran had not dared to dream they would ever behold—a magnificent sight, as frightening as it was compelling, as mystifying as it was awesome. Speechlessly they watched, tongues lolling in their mouths, eyes fixed to the dazzling display, as it bounded to and fro, catching their vision and transfixing them. It was overpowering, shattering, terrible yet beautiful. The knowledge of its power dazzled their minds and fogged their vision. Blue Fire. Yes, the men of Aran knew its name.
Blue Fire!
The golden scimitar of the throne of Speca, the power and the glory of the land that once Aran loved as a brother.