THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (53 page)

“The keys!” cried one of the slaves. “He has the keys to our shackles!”

Without a thought for the white-hot flame already searing the overseer’s bloated body, Ramagar scrambled to the edge of the pool of liquid, straining to pull the flaming taskmaster free. While driving rain kept the flames subdued, the fearsome wind sent tongues of flame licking at the thief’s garments.

The taskmaster was still alive, screaming and writhing as Ramagar’s nimble fingers tried to pry the key chain from his belt. Finally the thief used his dagger to cut off the belt. Then he tossed it to the waiting prisoners.

“Here, free yourselves!” he shouted. And while the amazed Specians struggled to unlock their shackles, Ramagar made a hasty retreat, his hands sheltering his face, just as the fire spread and consumed the moaning sadist.

Argyle and the others were badly under siege; though the piled bags of sulphur offered good protection, they were completely surrounded and pinned down by squads of Druids. Constant barrages of whistling arrows sailed amid the rain and wind, forcing the bold adventurers to keep down low in their positions.

The sky itself seemed afire when Ramagar finally worked his way to their side. The haj bellowed in warning, and Ramagar whirled, greeting head-on a fearsome soldier thrown from his steed and now trying to bolt free from the mayhem. Ramagar deftly upended the man and sent him flying into Argyle’s waiting arms. The glittering ax came down, and with a single thrust severed the soldier’s head from his shoulders, sending it tumbling to the ground.

“We’ll never be able to hold!” cried Thorhall in despair. “They’re coming at us from every side—and more are on the way. Look!” He pointed down the dark, muddy road to where Druid cavalry were racing from the shadows.

The Druids were pressing steadily closer; they plunged from the road and over the fences of the camp, sweeping running slaves before them and trampling them down like chattel, with crashes and thuds lifting men off their feet and snapping their necks and backs.

Howls of dismay rose from the prisoners as they realized their situation. Freed at last from their chains, they were now given a choice of being cut down by the oncoming cavalry or retreating to face a fiery death from the burning minerals.

“They’re done for,” commented the haj, his heart broken at the sight.

“And so will we be,” added Argyle in somber response.

“Unless we can reach the mine,” said Ramagar. “If we can blow it, we can stop their entire advance.”

But the situation seemed hopeless. The moment they broke from their cover, a host of Druid arrows would assail them.

Anguished, the brave band looked on. But suddenly their ears caught the faint blast from afar—-a sound that made them all expect the worst.

“What is it?” said Ramagar.

Thorhall shook his head. “I … I don’t know … I’m not sure …” But then it came again: the sound of a horn, five short blasts in rapid succession. Thorhall strained to peer over the sides of the sacks, heedless of the snub-nosed arrows smacking clumsily into the dirt.

“It is!” he cried. “It’s them!”

And while his companions stared in confusion, a large group of shadowy figures came leaping and bounding over the fences, broad-shouldered, swarthy men, with hate in their eyes and minds intent on battle.

Thorhall’s wildmen had joined the contest.

The fearless barbarians scaled the wired perimeters, shouting war cries of old, attacking with the full force of their numbers into the lines of Druid archers and cavalry and rendering savage blows.

With the new element added to the fight the melee raged at a more furious pitch than ever. Wildmen slashed and hacked their way from one fortified line to the next, causing total havoc and forcing the hard-pressed Druids to make one hasty retreat after another. And while all this was happening, the freed Specian slaves began to come out of their drugged stupors and, sweeping up the enemy’s fallen weapons, added further fuel to the din of battle.

Argyle and Thorhall looked at each other and laughed. Then bolting from their places, they full-heartedly joined the fray.

“Now’s our chance,” exhorted Ramagar. With the haj and Homer beside him, the thief dashed into the open and across the bloodied field. The ground was carpeted with bodies; slaves, wildmen, dozens upon dozens of fallen Druids. Arrow shafts poked up from the earth like grisly blades of grass; there were helmets and spears, knives and swords, limbs and torsos stuck in mud and pools of dark blood. Boiling minerals sizzled as the Specians turned over the last of the vats, spilling the liquid at the oncoming Druid horsemen. Rain was pouring down, the ground shook with thunder, and lightning flashed while searing color raced across the heavens.

Ramagar stooped and picked up a thick stick. While the haj watched with puzzlement, the thief tore strips of linen from his shirt, wrapped them carefully around the head of the stick, and ignited his torch by poking it into a pool of fiery mineral. The torch sprang magnificently into flame, sending streaks of fire spinning in the wind. Then on toward the entrance to the mine they ran, mindless of the danger to themselves.

Three mail-clad Druids charged from the side. Distant cavalry pressed to reach the thief and stop him. Eyes wild with desperation, the mail-clad soldiers lunged for the haj. Burlu met the first with an overhand blow that crushed both helmet and skull, then quickly wove a web of flying steel at the others while Ramagar slipped closer to the dark, descending shaft.

“Hurry, Ramagar!” called the worried haj, fending off blows and keeping a wary eye to the approaching cavalry.

The thief grunted, and replied, “Run like the devil when I throw!” Onto his belly he dived as spears came flying. The sordid smell of sulphur burst upon his nostrils; gathering a handful of loose sulphur he quickly spread it thinly in a snaking line down to the shaft, a short fuse giving perhaps ten or fifteen seconds’ time to make his getaway.

The haj thrust, countered, parried, and thrust again. His blade caught the second soldier unaware and the Druid reeled back, hands to his throat where his jugular had been cut. The last of the enemy abandoned all defensive tactics; wildly he threw himself at the aging swineherd. Burlu lost touch with his opponent’s blade; holding breath, he leaned aside, dodging the thrust, then came back up with one of his own. He could feel the bite of steel as it grazed his arm, feel his own weapon pulse up through the Druid’s gut and tear into his heart. The soldier fell with the blade; the haj turned to seek out the coming horses. “Now, Ramagar! Now!”

The thief backstepped outside; he lifted the torch and threw it down at the edge of the fuse. Sulphur sizzled and the flames danced. And back toward the piles of sacks they ran with reckless abandon. The charging cavalrymen pulled sharply on the reins and tried to turn their steeds about. At sight of the lighted fuse the horses bolted in terror, screaming and bucking.

The fuse wisped its way lower and lower into the shaft, out of sight now, save for the crimson shadows reflected by the dull earthen walls.

Ramagar and the haj leaped for shelter. The first explosion rocked the camp like nothing they had ever seen; horses and riders were sent flying into the air like dolls, scream upon scream, limbs being wrenched from their bodies as a flood of dragon-like fire spewed from the shaft. Ramagar scrambled to his knees, feeling as though his head had been beaten by a sledgehammer. Druids were trying to run in every direction before him, but the second explosion sent them slamming to the ground again, unable even to move while a new fire tore across the length of the camp. The wooden edifices were turning into raging timber, flames rising higher and higher until the entire camp had become an oven.

Through the scorching terrain Ramagar and the haj broke, reaching the edge of the open road. There, the wildmen, under the direction of Thorhall and the wounded Argyle, were routing the last of the cavalry and preparing to attack the Black Forest garrison itself.

“The citadel,” gasped Ramagar, panting for air, “we have to get down to the city at once to free the slaves and give our signal to the
Vulture …”

“The fires are spreading everywhere,” said Thorhall. And he glanced back at the devastated camp. “You’ll have to cross the flames to reach the road.”

“No matter,” replied the thief, thinking now only of finding Mariana amid the raging of battle and rescuing her before marauding Druids combed the land.

From behind came the whinnying of frightened horses; Ramagar turned with blade in hand. Standing tense and poised he stared as Homer appeared from within the dense clouds of smoke, riding a fine black stallion. His face was black with ash and smoke, his clothing smeared, but the grin he wore stretched from ear to ear.

“The compound is freed!” he cried merrily. “We can rejoin the Prince!”

“He’s right,” said the haj. “Best we hasten to the citadel as fast as we can.”

“That’s why I rounded up these,” replied Homer, and he gestured to the two horses on short rein standing docilely behind his own. “With luck we can be there in a few hours.”

“The sooner the better,” said Ramagar. He took the bridle of one in hand and soothed the mare’s flanks. “Captain Osari must be close to port by now, and we can’t keep him waiting.” And losing no time, he expertly mounted and prepared to ride.

“Farewell until the battle is done,” called Thorhall as the haj mounted his own steed. Then as he and Argyle began the march to overtake the garrison and free the countryside, the three companions from Kalimar waved briefly and galloped off in the opposite direction.

Through thundering flame they spurred the horses on, riding a course right through the burning camp where only hours before a thousand slaves had languished. Across the shattered and smoking terrain, mindless of the stench of death and the pitiful sobs of dying men resounding in their ears, they clattered over debris, beyond the splintered fences, and onto open land.

Back toward the Valley of Morose they raced, where even at this distance they could make out the lines of the foreboding Devil’s Tower as it swayed amid the terrible winds and began to crumble.

The sky blazed now in whirling color as the riders reached the flatland. It glowed as black as coal, then white almost as the day; flashes of scarlet and amber dizzily danced above, changing to silver and gray and returning at length to burn feverishly with blue fire. The poisoned clouds churned demonically in a vortex; it was hail that suddenly pelted the earth, spewing harmless venom to the ground while the thunder clapped in deafening roars and the winds continued to howl.

Over field and bogs they hurried, winding along the tremor-filled road, while from faraway points they could hear the low droning of bells, hundreds of bells, deep and resonant. They clanged like the wails of demons, and the riders shuddered with every chime.

Drawing close to the citadel, they paused upon a rise and peered out for the first time at the city itself and the port beyond. Ramagar stared in wonder. The sea had begun to roll, with wave after mountainous wave lashing furiously against the ancient wharves and low reefs at the harbor’s mouth, breaking over both, smashing them like kindling. Into the stoic walls of the capital they crashed; like a flood the torrent of ocean came, crushing seawalls asunder, pouring like a tempest over deadened scapes and withered lands.

Then atop the heights near the jagged chalk cliffs the riders took pause again. Peering down at the city, they watched a sight unlike anything they had ever seen. Even as the bite of the sea tore at the Druid fortress from without, a great tumult had begun to rage from within. Great fires were spreading everywhere, and beneath the explosions of the sky above, it seemed as though the entire land of Speca was crumbling before their eyes. From shore to shore the land was shaking; the din of rampant mobs broken free attested to the thousands of slaves rid of their shackles and now ripping apart every vestige of Druid domination.

Mighty statues came smashing to the ground; grim temples and marble plazas were devastated as the earth quaked underneath. As once-fierce Druid cavalry and archers vainly tried to stem the raging tide, scores of half-crazed mobs burnt everything in sight. Dragon Ships were rocking and tossing upon the angry sea, rendered virtually helpless with the maelstrom. Slowly, though, the dark vessels plowed closer to the port, weapons of destruction aimed at the heart of the city itself.

“They’re going to destroy the capital!” cried Ramagar, watching as the sail-less ships fought their way toward the shore.

“Aye,” agreed the somber haj. “They hope to raze the city and ravish the land. The lords of Darkness demand as much. If Druid culture must perish, then so shall all others …”

Ramagar looked on helplessly; already the first balls of steel had been flung from the catapults, smashing over the walls and killing all who stood in the way. The crowds were fleeing helter-skelter, scrambling over the corpses of fallen comrades and slain Druids. And onward the Dragon Ships pressed, in unholy vengeance against the pitiful city.

The Dragon Ship prows struck westward, past the broken seawalls; the sea was black with the shadows of crimson ships dancing upon the tossing waves. But then, even as they drew closer to target, other vessels began to appear beneath the twisting clouds to the east. Tiny dots at first, shapeless and unrecognizable, but drawing steadily closer to Speca’s barren shores. The horizon became dotted with them from edge to edge, until it showed itself to be a mighty armada straining forward to join the fight.

The Dragon Ships stopped in their places; some began to turn, others held fast. Orders bellowed from vessel to vessel as the awesome Dragon Ships massed into battle formations.

“They’re turning from the city!” gasped the haj, astounded.

The thief of Kalimar laughed. “Look! Can’t you see? Look to the sails!”

The first of the approaching ships came into full view, and both Homer and the haj stared in disbelief. It was the
Vulture,
sails full and swelled, leading what seemed to be half a thousand sleek
knaars
into battle.