Mercadian Masques

Chapter 17

In the dark before dawn, a caravan moved slowly away from Mercadia, through circling walls of stone and garbage. Gerrard and his companions trailed in its wake. Here in the shadow of the mountain, the ground was dry enough to produce dust, which masked the rebels and their stolen Jhovalls.

The corral Gerrard had landed next to had turned out to belong to the city guard. He had "borrowed" several mounts from the stables. It seemed poetic justice. The guard was in such disarray they were unlikely to miss the Jhovalls until it was far too late to do anything about the theft. "They should have learned from my training," Gerrard told himself dryly, spitting dust from his teeth. It was not the first or last time he would spit on that long, dusty journey.

Despite the inevitable grit, Weatherlight's crew members rode with a glad ease. For Gerrard and Tahngarth, the journey meant freedom after long incarceration. For Sisay, it was a chance to negotiate with sword instead of word. For Dabis, Tallakaster, Fewsteem, Chamas, and Ilcaster, the smell of clean dirt was welcome after months in the perfumed fetor of Mercadia. All were glad to be riding-and soon, fightingtogether. It was like old times.

Only Takara rode apart. Since her mysterious arrival, she had hung back in the pack, lending aid where it was required but offering little comment. Perhaps she sensed the crew's growing distrust of her. Perhaps she knew that Gerrard no longer welcomed her advice. The others left the fiery Rathi alone. By the dawn of the second day, her reticence was beginning to wear on her comrades.

In the dusty morning, Gerrard's curiosity at last awakened. He let his Jhovall fall back among the other steeds until he came even with Takara. Keeping his eyes trained on the road ahead, Gerrard said, "You've been pretty quiet on this trip."

Takara's mount stalked easily forward. "Yes."

"Is something bothering you?" Gerrard pressed. "You seemed happy enough to join us."

"My father is dead."

Gerrard's eyes grew wide. He stammered, "H-He's dead?"

"Murdered in the infirmary. It was one of those Ramosan assassins."

"Ramosan… assassins?" Gerrard echoed amazedly.

"The city is rife with them. The guards are worthless. They haven't the first clue where to find the killer."

Gerrard's eyes followed the rumpled ground. "I'm sorry, Takara. I shouldn't have… intruded on your grief."

"Oh, I don't grieve," she said bitterly. "I never grieve. I only hate. I'm going to corner the man who killed my father. I'm going to wrap my fingers around his neck and rip his throat out." She turned her gaze toward Gerrard. Her eyes were as sharp as poniards. "Do you know where the Ramosans hide out?"

Pursing his lips, Gerrard said quietly, "No, I couldn't help you there."

Jaw flexing grimly, Takara peered toward the front of the caravan. "Aren't you needed up there?"

Gerrard nodded, nudging his Jhovall with his heels. "I'm sorry to have intruded on your… on your hatred."

Two days out, the caravan they'd been following turned off to the north. The Weatherlight brigade continued to the west. The directions to Ouramos, such as Gerrard had managed to ascertain, were tantalizingly vague. The Cho-Arrim had provided their best map scrolls, but even those were only approximates. By Sisay's reckoning, a Jhovall journey of five days west, bearing along the line of the Great Scales at darkest night, would bring them in sight of the fabled place.

The plains rose in a long, gentle slope and then fell away into a valley. At the far end, the road curved through a series of high paths. The earth was very black and moist but with surprisingly little vegetation. The road they followed grew narrower and less used. Finally, they could follow it only by tracking along a widely spaced series of huge, gray stones on its edge.

At the mouth of a wide, swampy gorge, Gerrard halted, and the others stopped behind him.

"What's the matter?" Sisay wiped her forehead.

The day had been hot, and the sun was only just beginning to sink into the south, amid a striated series of clouds. They were facing a long passage between two mesas. The high cliffs, made of blood-red rocks, dropped to foul-smelling fens at their feet. Drowned forests stood white amid marshy grasses. Clouds of insects hovered in the air. The stillness and the unpleasant odor that lingered in the air contributed to the atmosphere of rot and decay that hung over everything and bore down on the travelers.

Gerrard said, "We're not alone here." He looked at Tahngarth.

The minotaur nodded. "Yes. Someone is watching us."

"Who?" Instinctively, the party drew their mounts closer together, and Gerrard loosened his sword in its sheath.

Before the minotaur could reply, a black shape surged up from behind a dead tree that bordered the road. As it raced toward them, it gave an unearthly, ululating cry. The shout was echoed a few seconds later by other creatures emerging from the swampy forest. They rose from the muck, gray-skinned manifestations of it. Once men, these withered and shambling monsters were draped in whatever clothes had survived the ravages of rot. Here and there, bone showed through sloughing flesh. The creatures shrieked as they stormed the party. Their screams rebounded from the white ghosts of drowned trees.

"Deepwood ghouls!" Takara shouted as her sword raked free.

Tahngarth's striva slashed off the head of the foremost ghoul. Rather than collapsing, the body of the creature pushed its way blindly forward, groping in a horrid parody of human action. Its arms embraced Tahngarth's Jhovall. The six-legged tiger-creature reared, slashing its forepaws across gray flesh. Claws tore open the undead thing's belly, as if ripping a sack of old leather. Out tumbled desiccated organs. Parts quivered on the ground, but still the ghoul raked forward.

With a shout of disgust, Tahngarth kicked the headless monster away from him.

Another group of ghouls converged from the other side of the road.

Swiftly Weatherlight's crew backed their steeds into a circle. Swords menaced above the snarling and spitting heads of the Jhovalls.

The ghouls showed no fear, leaping inward.

Sisay bent from her saddle, thrusting her blade into the heart of the nearest ghoul. Steel crackled through dead flesh and snapped ribs as though they were twigs. Her sword sunk deep. A full foot of blade protruded from the monster's back. It kept coming. Its decaying fingers gripped Sisay about her waist and pulled her down into the dust. White bones with shredded flesh sank into Sisay's neck. It squeezed, strangling her.

A Jhovall bounded up beside her, and a sword flashed down. Gerrard's blade slashed the arm from the ghoul's body. From the other side, Fewsteem attacked with a heavy mace. Spikes fell, impaling the thing's skull. Powdery brain ghosted out on the air. The strike smashed the ghoul's body to the earth.

Sisay pried the dead hand from her neck and retreated among shouldering Jhovalls.

The party was fighting perhaps twenty of the flesh eaters. The ghouls were impervious to mortal wounds. They bore on, regardless of the injuries they suffered. Survival did not matter to them, only destruction of their foes. Despite their obvious mindlessness, the ghouls seemed to attack in concert. Two ghouls would slash at adjacent Jhovalls, opening a space into which a third could charge. It was as though they were the dumb pawns of a much larger mind, playing out the battle like a game of chess. And every good chess player guards his king.

"They fight with a vengeance!" Gerrard shouted above the melee. As his sword split the head of another creature, he yelled, "They fight like guardians!"

He heard a shriek to his right and saw that one of the ghouls had plunged a rusting sword into the heart of Fewsteem's Jhovall. The great tiger sank to its knees, its head jerking back and forth as lifeblood poured out. Fewsteem was flung from his saddle, and a pair of ghouls dragged the hapless crewman toward the swamp beyond the road. His eyes rolled back in panic.

With a shout, Gerrard leaped from his own mount, which was hemmed in by a circle of slashing, clawing ghouls. He vaulted over their heads. Even as he did so, he heard a squeal of agony from his Jhovall. It too fell victim to the bloodbath. The Benalian reached the fen. He swung his sword and cut in half one of the ghouls holding Fewsteem. Sisay ran up behind him and disposed of the other creature. They dragged Fewsteem out of the muck.

On the road above, the situation was improving. The crew had destroyed a dozen attackers, at the cost of three Jhovalls. The other ghouls continued to press forward without hesitation, but the tide of the battle had clearly turned.

Despite a dozen small cuts on his chest and arms, Tahngarth scooped up a ghoul and threw it some twenty feet away to smash against a twisted tree. Takara cut the legs out from beneath another at the same moment that Ilcaster chopped its head from its shoulders. The severed head bounded along the road into the ditch, where it sank beneath the muck, its eyes rolling in their sockets.

Gerrard, Sisay, and Fewsteem rejoined the others to destroy the remaining beasts. In a few minutes, the crewmen were panting, wiping their weapons, and binding up each others' wounds. Without visible effort, Tahngarth picked up the various pieces of ghoul left on the road and tossed them into the festering swamp. Gerrard looked sadly at the mangled body of his Jhovall. The two surviving Jhovalls were so seriously injured that their suffering called for mercy. At a nod from Gerrard, Tahngarth walked them to the side of the road and swiftly, efficiently dispatched them.

Sisay looked at Gerrard and sighed. "Well," she said philosophically, "I suppose we could all do with a long walk to get back in shape."

"Did you notice how the ghouls fought?" Gerrard asked amazedly. "I got the distinct impression they were servants of some higher being."

Sisay worried her lip a little. "Cho-Manno had warned me that the road to Ouramos was protected by the dead comrades of Ramos-his soldiers who were burned alive when he fell flaming from the sky. I'd just taken the comment as a bit of folklore, but perhaps he meant these ghouls. I should have passed on the warnings."

Gerrard smiled appreciatively, patting her shoulder. "Your reticence was understandable, but from now on, if you remember any more of Cho-Manno's warnings, make sure you tell us. In a legendary land, myth may prove truer than truth."

None of the party was seriously injured, but the claws and teeth of the foul beings had evidently been infected with the water of the swamps. Next day, Sisay and Fewsteem both ran high fevers. The party camped in the shadow of cliffs far removed from the fens. Gerrard soaked a rag in canteen water and pressed it to Sisay's forehead. Chamas performed a similar service for Fewsteem. They spent a miserable, uncomfortable day and night before the two ill travelers had recovered sufficiently to move on.

The next day, much to their relief, they left both swamps and cliffs behind. They had reached the top of a large plateau. The land stretched before them, dotted with clumps of trees and other vegetation. On the far horizon was a ridge of mountains, their tops capped with snow. Looking back, the party could see they had come through a long series of broken defiles that led down to the eastern plains. That night, they found plenty of wood for a fire and built a cheerful blaze to guard against the brisk wind that swept over this higher land.

Sisay and Fewsteem huddled close to the fire. Both had recovered from their infection, but neither was as hardy as before the ghoul attack. Against the darkness, the flames made fantastic, leaping shapes. Tahngarth picked up a long stick from the ground and stirred the fire. A shower of sparks spat and leaped up, rising into the ebony sky. To himself, the minotaur chanted softly a Talruum battle song. Gerrard looked at him with affection.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Sisay, a blanket wrapped tightly about her.

"I was just thinking," Gerrard returned.

She moved a bit closer to him on the log. "About what?"

Gerrard rubbed his chin, feeling the rough bristle of his beard. "I've forgotten how much I miss this."

"Miss what? Sitting miles away from your home with nothing to eat but dry rations, nothing to do but hope you'll make the next day's march without some disaster, nothing to wear but the clothes on your back that you haven't washed for a week." Sisay wrinkled her nose. "I hope to the gods we find a stream tomorrow. You need a bath."

Gerrard laughed. "I know. You're pretty ripe yourself. No, that's not what I meant."

"What, then?"

He waved a hand around him. "All this. Companionship. Searching for something but not knowing whether you'll ever find it." He shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Sisay put a hand on his arm. He could feel the tough calluses on her palm. "I know what you mean. Believe me, I do. There's something special about the search itself, even if you don't find what you're looking for. I think sometimes that's what I was really looking for, rather than for the Legacy. I was looking for… for the looking itself. Is that stupid?"

"No. No, it's not." Gerrard turned and looked Sisay full in the face. Since he'd found her in Volrath's Dream Halls, this was the first time he'd looked closely at her. Fine lines surrounded her eyes. A tiny streak of gray had appeared in her hair. A delicate scar-almost a decoration, it was so fine-ran from the edge of her mouth back along the line of her jaw to her ear. Her skin was weather roughened, not the fine blush that mantled Hanna's face. Yet it had a kind of unearthly beauty that was all Sisay's own. Her eyes were brown, set deep in her face, filled with pain, with joy, with a kind of wild hope.

"Do you know something?" Gerrard asked. "Rath made you stronger. Made you wiser. More beautiful."

"It's the power of hate," interrupted Takara, sitting nearby, tossing pebbles sullenly in the fire. "Hate makes you stronger, wiser, more beautiful."

Without looking at the Rathi, Gerrard shook his head. "No. There you're wrong. Hate eats you up from the inside. It makes you weak and stupid and ugly. It's hope that makes you strong. There were two ways to survive Rath-hate and hope. Only hope makes heroes."

The next two days, the road wound among trees of increasing girth and height, with branches that began fifty or sixty feet up the trunk. They were of a kind completely unfamiliar to anyone in the party. In some places, the path was completely overgrown. It took all of Tahngarth's and Sisay's tracking skills to keep them going in the right direction.

From the lower branches of the trees, moss draped like tattered clothing, casting mysterious shadows across the path. Wherever upper branches let" sun penetrate to the forest floor, lizards scuttled across the roadway or sunned themselves on rocks.

At night the party lit fires that drove back the shadows but attracted thousands of huge moths. During the still watches of the night, the rumble of vast hooves came from the forest, and huge pairs of eyes gleamed distantly with reflected firelight. It was easy enough for watchmen to stay awake, but no beast ever came close enough to be identified.

On the second day in the forest, they came upon the ruin of a large stone tower among the trees. Its walls were limned with moss and ivy, and the roof had fallen in. When new, the tower must have been impressive, but now it was merely a sad reminder of a long-ago glory. The crew found themselves speaking in hushed tones as they examined the ruins.

It was Ilcaster who drew Gerrard's attention to the glyph carved in the stone arch.

The Benalian examined it carefully. "Yes. No doubt about it. It's another Thran glyph. Whoever built this place knew something about the Thran." Gerrard looked about them at the tall trees, silent witnesses to the unknown past. "I think," he said finally, "we can safely say we've entered Ouramos."

The following day saw the number and size of the ruins increase. The Thran glyphs engraved on the fallen edifices were now so common that they ceased to provoke comment. The buildings were closer together, bigger and more impressive, but all were in a state of decay and ruin.

Gerrard saw Sisay looking about her with a slightly puzzled expression. "What's the matter?" he asked.

She pointed to a series of walls that extended along one side of the path for a quarter mile before ceasing abruptly. "These ruins. There's something odd about them."

Gerrard glanced around. "I don't see it."

"That's right," chimed in Tallakaster from behind them. The large blond sailor, bare to the waist, shifted his pack on massive shoulders. "I mean, Cap'n, if you were standing out here all alone for years, you'd be falling to pieces too."

Sisay chuckled. "I daresay you're right. But that's not what I mean. They're not just falling to pieces; they've been destroyed."

"What do you mean?" asked Gerrard.

"I mean something happened to this city."

"Like Ramos falling on it from the sky?"

"Well, perhaps a figurative Ramos. The myth might mask a historical truth. Look." Sisay grabbed Gerrard's arm and led him toward the wall. She touched the stone, which crumbled beneath her fingers. She rubbed her fingertips, and the stuff turned to a white powder.

"I've seen something like this before, on Dominaria." She pushed a few of the stones, and they fell with a thump to the forest floor. "This wall's been blasted by sudden heat-"

"Gerrard! Sisay! Tahngarth! Come look at this!"

The three turned, making their way to where Ilcaster and Dabis stood near a large mound. Both were holding their hands before their faces, warding off the stench that rose from the mound.

"Phew! What have you two found?" Gerrard's eyes watered.

Tahngarth spat once. "Taumalangah!"

"Spoor!" Sisay translated for Gerrard's benefit. "Droppings from something."

"Humph! Well, whatever it is, it's huge." Gerrard walked around the pile of excrement, careful to keep his distance. "Everybody keep your eyes open-and your noses covered."

The travelers moved on down the road into dim, green recesses.

Another hour of silent tramping brought them to a small clearing. There, they halted for a moment to rest. Sisay sank to the ground, head between her hands, knees drawn up. Although she had largely recovered from the fever of a few days previously, neither she nor Fewsteem were quite as healthy as the others. Tahngarth moved restlessly about the glade, while Gerrard took a long pull from his waterskin. In the forest, they had found several streams, all of which seemed excellent sources of drinking water.

"Sir!" Dabis ran up. The dark-haired Icatian was about as excited as Gerrard had ever seen him. He opened his clenched fist. "Look, sir!"

Gerrard gasped. A powerstone. Tiny, no more than a mere speck compared to the crystal that powered Weatherlight, but it was nonetheless a glowing powerstone, shining with its own source of internal fire.

"Excellent!" He clapped Dabis on the shoulder. "Where was it?"

"Just lying on the g-ground." Dabis, almost too excited to speak, stuttered. "I saw a glow from off to the side, and there it was, just lying on the ground like somebody dropped it."

In an instant, the group was down on its knees in the spot Dabis had indicated, clawing through the undergrowth. After a frantic, silent ten minutes of searching, Gerrard gave up with a sigh.

"All right. This is only one. But the important thing is we know we're on the right track." He lifted his pack to his shoulders. "Let's go."

The companions proceeded, in single file, Gerrard leading the way and Tahngarth, his sword drawn, bringing up the rear. Before them, the path grew more obscure, the trees denser. To either side, they heard a series of deep rumbles, with an occasional hiss that sounded like the heavy breathing of some mighty creature.

Without a word, the party halted, and swords were drawn from scabbards. Gerrard placed a finger on his lips, and they stole cautiously forward.

Suddenly the trees parted. A great vista opened. They found themselves blinking in the unexpected sunlight.

Before them, the land dipped in a wide bowl carved from the living rock, a great arena overrun by weed and creeper. In the center, perhaps a thousand feet from where the party stood, was a great circle of raised sand, low but baked and gleaming in the bright sunlight. Standing stones, carved with Thran glyphs, ringed the sandy circle. In the center of the circle was a large, flat stone table, resembling an altar. The altar stone in turn held five large crystals, glinting in the sunlight.

"Ouramos," Gerrard said in awe.

Sisay looked at him and nodded. "Yes. Those must be the powerstones. The Bones of Ramos."

Takara said, "It's not likely those stones would remain undisturbed all these years unless they were pretty well guarded. Magic. Or worse…"

The Benalian cast a quick glance around. "All right. There's no point in all of us going down there. If ever there were a place likely to be rigged with traps of some kind, this is it. Sisay and Tahngarth, you're with me. The rest of you stay here and keep a sharp eye out-"

His instructions were interrupted by a terrified scream behind him. Gerrard turned.

Ilcaster's dark, handsome face contorted with pain. He was caught in the grip of two vines that had snaked across the path, entwining his feet. The lad fell to the ground, drew his knife, and hacked at the green tendrils.

Gerrard darted in and chopped down with his sword. It clanged away. The vines were as hard as steel.

Ilcaster gave a yell of horror. There was a spurt of blood from a severed artery as the clinging vines cut through flesh and bone in his ankles. Another vine, writhing as if it were a snake, shot across the path and gripped him around the throat, cutting off his cry. A moment later his head rolled free beside Gerrard's feet.

Sisay and the others curved in a tight circle, facing outward. Gerrard joined them. From the woods, more vines groped inward. The crew bashed them back with ringing blades.

A young sapling lashed down atop the crew like a scourge.

Tahngarth reached up, grasped the bole, and viciously snapped off the top. The rest of the tree sprang back. It seemed to give a shriek of pain. Thick green sap surged from the wound.

A vine yanked Sisay's feet from under her. Gerrard jerked her upright and battered the tendril until it let go.

A tree trunk smashed to the ground beside Tallakaster, missing him by a hairsbreadth. Below the feet of the crew-man, the ground boiled and turned to mud, imprisoning his feet. He screamed and sank farther into the morass.

Gerrard pulled at his arms in a vain attempt to pry him loose. Gerrard's fingers dug into the sailor's flesh. Tallakaster's eyes bulged with fear. The sailor slipped another few inches, pulling Gerrard with him. In a moment, he too would be trapped by the mud. Gerrard felt the man's hands slip away. The Benalian had a last brief glance of Tallakaster's fear-crazed face sinking below the mud, and then he was gone.

A blast of wind trembled the treetops and rose to a screaming gale. The trees shook. Leaves, pine needles, and fir cones beat on their heads. The very ground bucked and swayed beneath their staggering feet.

"We can't last here!" Gerrard shouted. "Retreat!"

They did, moving cautiously away from the great bowl of Ouramos.

"Look!" Sisay yelled, stopping short.

The crew were suddenly surrounded by fantastical figures. Roughly human in shape, they had green hair and pale, green skin. Long, slender fingers waved as if branches. They were clad in leaves, twigs, and vines, knitted together in sheaths that barely covered their lean bodies. Their hands were raised, crossed together and linked in a curious pattern. As if from a great distance, Gerrard heard a sound that could only be described as singing.

"More defenders…" Sisay said breathlessly as Gerrard staggered up beside her. "Dryads."