Mercadian Masques

Chapter 6

Tahngarth coughed and spat a gobbet of dust-blackened spit into the parched earth. The beads in his hair rattled in the dry wind. The minotaur reached up behind his neck and adjusted the straps of the pack riding high on his muscular shoulders. He twisted his other arm, reaching inside the heavy fabric of his brocaded jacket. His thick fingers scrabbled against his chest, reached his armpit, and gave a long, satisfying scratch.

Around him soldiers of the Mercadian Imperial Guard

Fifth Regiment groaned in the unrelenting heat. A stench rose from their sweating bodies, almost palpable in the dusty air. Around them, the broad plain before the city stretched away into nothingness. Far to the west, a thick brown eddy of dust swirled, spitting out long tendrils of dun-colored grit.

A thudding of claws nearby made the minotaur look up. Astride a nettled Jhovall rode a familiar green form.

"Speed it up, men!" trumpeted Squee shrilly. "Keep dat line straight! Dress da front of the rear! Wheel behind da right of flank left!"

Since facing down a cateran enforcer a moonturning ago, Squee had pressed every advantage of his species. Goblins were accorded strange honors in Mercadia. It had taken Gerrard a whole week to convince his soldiers they did not need to listen to the "little commander"-that Squee in fact wanted them not to listen. After a month of training, the soldiers dutifully ignored Squee's commands. They marched steadily forward, looking neither left nor right.

With some difficulty, the goblin turned his large steed until he caught sight of the minotaur. "Hallo, Tahngarth. Didn't see you. Squee's having fun. How 'bout you?"

The minotaur's enhanced muscles bulged and swelled, and he bent his head without saying a word. He thought a good many words, though, and muttered a few under his breath.

Squee rode to the rear of the procession, where he found Gerrard, similarly mounted. The Benalian was sweating copiously. Near him, a group of young Mercadian nobles, dressed in the uniforms of brigadiers and generals, were being carried in litters by slaves. Other slaves walked alongside, waving large wood and parchment fans to create a continuous breeze upon the noble companions.

"Hoy, Squee! Everything going well up in front?" Gerrard asked, not expecting to get any real information from the goblin's answer.

"Oh, yeah. Great. Gerrard?"

"What?" The Benalian spoke through dry, cracked lips.

"Ain't you supposed to salute Squee when yer talking to Squee?"

Gerrard's lips moved, forming some of the same words Tahngarth spoke fifty yards away. Next, the Benalian thought sourly, the little goblin will expect to take Sisay's place as captain of Weatherlight.

That thought jolted Gerrard's mind back to the present. With a quick command he brought the party around in a right turn and then headed them back in the direction in which they'd come. Every day, every foray, the Mercadians improved a bit. He held up a finger, marking wind direction, and then rode up beside Tahngarth. "Well, what do you think? Are they ready?"

"No," the minotaur growled. "Their discipline is poor, and too many have not yet mastered fighting skills. If they were to confront properly trained soldiers, they would be slaughtered."

"I agree. From what Takara reports, the Cho-Arrim are more than trained soldiers. They're bloodthirsty head-hunters. It would be murder to march into Rushwood with unseasoned troops." Gerrard shook his head. "But from now on, we drive these enlistees harder… Who knows what those inhuman monsters have done with Orim?"

The shrill voice of Squee broke into the conversation. "Play dead! Everybody, roll over 'n' play dead!"

In unison, Tahngarth and Gerrard spoke a curse.

The vendor ran a hand lovingly over his display. It was hard to imagine that anywhere in the lands ruled by Mercadia was a farm that could best these farfhallen melons: firm, ripe, an edge of green showing along the creases in the rind. He drew the morning air into his lungs and let loose a bellow heard across the entire marketplace. "Fresh scarlet melons! Beautiful farfhallen melons! Ripe for the taking! Who'll take some nice, ripe farfhallen melons?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a long, thin arm reach for the fruit and pull one off the stand. Visions of adolescent boys, the bane of his existence, filled his mind, and he spun around, slapping down hard. An outraged squeal was heard, and the merchant found himself facing a small, green figure whose face showed surprise, anguish, and anger.

It was a goblin.

Yet this one was different. The merchant looked at the small green figure carefully. Like everyone else, he was well acquainted with Kyren, but this goblin was smaller than most. His eyes were dull and lacked the malicious glint of those who daily ascended the steps of the Tower of the Magistrate.

The farmer snatched back his hand as if it had been burned, his voice switching to a pleasant tenor. "I do beg your pardon, my good sir. I'm pleased my melons have found favor with you."

The thin, green face looked inquisitively at him. Behind the thief loomed an enormous brown figure, twisted horns brushing the top of the stall. The farmer gave a whimper of fear and stepped back away from his wares.

"Come, Squee. It's only a melon. Give it back and come along."

"But, Tahngarth, Squee's terrible hungry."

"You are always terribly hungry."

"Not always!" The goblin's face wore an injured expression. "But Squee ain't had a decent meal since we got ta this place." He looked disdainfully at the melon. "This place ain't got no proper goblin food. What 'bout bugs? What 'bout slugs? Squee ain't seen none around nowhere anyhow."

The farmer found his voice. "Pardon me, but the melons are scarce this season. There has been little rainfall in the lowlands, and Cho-Arrim raiders plague the caravans."

The minotaur gave a sour grunt. "Put it back and come."

"Sir, wait!" The merchant ignored the enormous brown creature and deferentially addressed Squee. "Allow me to offer you this melon-as a gift."

A young blonde woman, who had materialized by the minotaur's side, said to the merchant, "We apologize for our friend's behavior. We're a bit new to the city. We thank you for your generosity."

The fruit seller performed an obsequious obeisance. "Whatever our scaly friends desire."

The blonde woman wore an unsettled expression. "Yes, we've noticed."

"1 can't believe they already sent a contingent after Weatherlight.'" Gerrard growled, whirling his sword. The blade struck the practice dummy, shearing off its head. "I can't believe they didn't wait until our troops were trained!"

Takara took a deep breath of the dusty afternoon air. Gazing at the decapitated dummy, she said with dark humor, "If it is any consolation, the force they sent was slaughtered."

"Of course they were slaughtered!" Gerrard said. He kicked the post and snapped the thing in half. His troops on the practice grounds beyond stared with bald fear at their angry commander. "Of course they were slaughtered. Our fighters are the only fighters Mercadia has. It's taken us six weeks to turn these lazy sausages into fighting men. Anybody else would have been killed."

The Mercadians' eyes grew wider still. They stared down into the dust, practice swords hanging limp in their hands.

In six weeks, every last one had dropped in weight and bulked their muscles. They had learned to fight hard and bathe afterward. They were even beginning to be impressive with trident and sword, but still they feared their vitriolic commander.

Takara, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on his fury.

He hissed, "They're trying to get to Weatherlight before we can. They're trying to renege on the deal."

Folding arms over her breastplate, Takara replied, "That's not reneging. They've met all the demands and will let you have your force when they are trained. The Mercadians never agreed to leave Weatherlight alone."

Gerrard nodded, sweat falling from his forehead. "Well, we'll just have to take these soldiers sooner."

"The Cho-Arrim aren't just cannibals. They're monsters, if you can believe these Mercadians. These Cho-Arrim are apparently vicious, inhuman beasts."

"All the more reason to whip these sad sacks into shape, and quickly. Orim is a prisoner among them-if she still lives," Gerrard said. "Go find Tahngarth and Sisay. I know this is their day off, but from now on none of us gets a day off until we have Weatherlight back."

"As you wish," Takara said, striding away.

Gerrard turned toward the Mercadian troops and barked out, "Back to the drill!"

The minotaur grumbled as they left the merchant's tent. Squee greedily seized another melon and began to munch on it, the juice dribbling over his chin.

A porter rushing along with a heavy basket of fruit on his shoulder barreled into the goblin and sprawled, the basket spilling bright red berries. Hanna and Tahngarth bent to retrieve what they could. Seeing Squee, the porter gave a sudden shriek and rushed off, leaving his basket and scattered wares behind him.

Tahngarth gave a snort, trying not to laugh. "Kyren goblins! What sort of place is ruled by goblins?"

Hanna shook her head. "I don't know. It's clear they're very important."

"Goblins! What 'bout goblins?" Squee appeared at her elbow, his nose and mouth smeared with red berries.

Hanna said sharply, "You shouldn't eat these things until you know what they are."

"Yeah, but how're you gonna know what they are without tasting 'em?"

The trio passed on down the street. Every few yards they were confronted with yet another merchant shouting and gesturing. It was a dizzying spectacle. The whole city was dizzying. During their six-week stay, the crew had come to realize the labyrinth of streets was ruled by a contorted, recursive geometry. A person could reach a landmark not by walking toward it but by walking away. A woman striding down a straight street would discover that she had been going in circles. A man wandering in circles would quickly reach his destination. It was as though a city of millions had been impossibly squeezed into a city of a hundred thousand. Space folded and refolded, maddeningly unpredictable. Sobriety led to utter confusion. Delirium led to truth.

Squee did quite well under these conditions. He did not even notice the disparities. Hanna's navigational sense was intrigued. She had plotted neighborhoods with various projections and found no system of coordinates adequate. Tahngarth-and other linear thinkers-spent their days hopelessly lost and suffering constant, raging headaches.

Tahngarth stumped irritably along. Buyers and sellers scattered before his hooves. The navigator looked at him and was struck at the change that had come over the minotaur. His bulky muscles were impressive, his frame more imposing than before his imprisonment in Volrath's Stronghold. Yet in his brown eyes there was a haunted look, as if something deep within him had died.

On an impulse, she put her hand on his broad arm and guided the minotaur to the base of a small tree. Here there were no stalls, and the noise was somewhat diminished. Hanna sank to the ground with a sigh of relief. Tahngarth remained standing. Squee squatted near them for a short time and then nosed off.

"Come, my friend. Sit down." She tugged at Tahngarth's tunic. He cleared his throat and knelt by her side with every appearance of reluctance.

"Do you want to tell me what the matter is, Tahngarth?"

"No. You would not understand."

"Perhaps I would. Suppose I tell you what I think is troubling you, and you tell me if I'm wrong?"

He stared sullenly into the middle distance where the Tower of the Magistrate rose against the lemon sky.

Hanna followed his gaze. "You were hurt in the Stronghold. However, Volrath didn't only torture you, he altered you. So much I've already heard from Gerrard, but I think there's something else to be said. I think you're afraid of something."

"Afraid!"

Hanna shrank back at the minotaur's roar.

"I am afraid of nothing!" He looked at her and blew a deep breath through his great nostrils. "Yet you are right. I would prefer I had died on Rath."

Hanna sighed in exasperation. "Oh, really? Well, that would be a lot of help to us here, wouldn't it? Then we'd be mourning you and Mirri." She leaned back, appraising the minotaur. "Is it the physical changes that bother you?"

Tahngarth stared silently into space. When Hanna started to get up, he spoke. "Ever since I was a tiny calf, I was told how handsome I was. I thought myself the handsomest of any minotaur in my tribe. I was more than handsome-I was beautiful." He turned and looked her full in the face. "Among my people, destinies are written in our faces, our bodies. I knew I would grow up to be a great warrior because I looked like a great warrior."

Hanna said thoughtfully, "Surely there must be more to being a warrior than looking the part?"

"There is, of course. One must train long and hard, hone one's fighting skills, prove oneself against others. But looks are by no means unimportant." He looked at her sharply. "Tell me this is not true among humans."

"It isn't," protested Hanna.

"Of course it is. Do you mean to tell me, Hanna, that when you look at Gerrard you do not see one who looks like a hero?" Though Hanna started to speak, the minotaur interrupted. "Sometimes during our journeys together I've heard you and others aboard Weatherlight speak of the great heroes of the past. Did you never notice that in all those tales the men are tall, strong, and handsome? That the women are exquisitely beautiful? Would you have enjoyed those stories just as much if the women had been ugly, and the men short, fat, and deformed? Would you still follow Gerrard if he looked like a rotten potato?"

Hanna spoke coldly. "I certainly hope that I can see beyond the surface. Gerrard is heir to the Legacy. That's why we follow him."

The minotaur shook his great head. "If Squee were heir to the Legacy, would you follow him?"

Hanna laughed. The idea of anyone following Squee anywhere was absurd. "But you're still exceedingly handsome, still young and strong."

"No. Strong but twisted. Volrath's soldiers placed me in a room where a beam of light shot from the ceiling. No matter which way I turned I could not avoid it." His voice cracked at the memory. "Finally it struck me, pinned me. I could feel it within me. My bones turned and twisted. My skin felt as if it was breaking. When it stopped, Greven il-Vec came. He looked at me and laughed. He said I might make a good first mate for him." The minotaur turned and stared at the blonde woman by his side. "And for a moment, I could see myself standing by his side. I could see myself, in my new, scarred body, standing on the deck of that dark ship as it swept across the skies of Rath. More than that, I wanted to be there." He lifted his great fist and slammed it into the ground. "Strong but twisted."

Hanna jumped as the earth quaked. There was a long silence, and then she said cautiously, "But you were rescued."

"Yes, yes, but I might have joined the dark ship had not Gerrard rescued me."

Hanna shook her head. "No, you wouldn't have, Tahngarth. Anyway, the past doesn't matter. What matters is what you are today, and right now you're the first mate of Weatherlight." She cleared her throat. "Maybe you have a point about appearances. But even if that's the case, I can tell you that you look like a first mate to me. Indeed, you look like a hero."

Tahngarth remained deep in thought for several minutes. Then he clapped Hanna on the shoulder. "Perhaps I have been brooding too much on this matter."

The conversation was ended abruptly by the arrival of Takara. "Tahngarth, Gerrard wants you and Sisay. He's ready to form up the troops for inspection. He's ready to march to the Rushwood."

Dust was everywhere. Grit filled sky and earth. It stung eyes and scoured noses. It clung to teeth and poured into ears. It clogged pores and tickled in necklines and filled the shaggy pelts of Jhovalls.

Mercadian dust-magic moved whole armies rapidly across the plain, but they arrived looking like dirt clods.

Riding a great rust-colored Jhovall, Gerrard led the Mercadian Imperial Guard Fifth Regiment through the dust cloud. To his right hand rode Takara, wrapped in a sandy scarf. To his left were Sisay and Tahngarth. Gerrard wanted his crew members beside and behind him-the best and most loyal fighters in his elite division. At their backs rode one hundred highly trained Mercadian warriors. Though grit covered their faces, they rode in even ranks. Amid swirling dust, the troops were mere shades of brown, yellow, and gray, but their weapons gleamed. Behind these riders came the most fearsome troops of all-caterans. The mercenaries were a motley and bloodthirsty band, some human but most inhuman, monstrous. They were cruel and unruly, loyal to Gerrard only through their commander, Xcric.

Gerrard whistled a distinctive trill. Out of the blinding cloud behind him rode Xcric. He was a cateran enforcer much like the one Squee had cowed in the marketplace that first day. Demonic eyes gleamed in his bulbous skull. Four mandibles plucked sand from a fangy mouth. Four arms jutted from his twisted shoulders. Clawed hands clutched the beast's reins, and barbed nubs held a lizard-skin cloak tight to his back. This taloned horror was no more than a brigand-and yet the Mercadians had hired him and insisted that he and his gang accompany the crew. Gerrard couldn't refuse.

"How close are we to the Rushwood?"

"Close." The creature's face was a mask of brown dirt. "Between a half mile and a quarter mile."

Gerrard nodded. "All right. Tell your people to fight only on my orders. We're counting on surprise and skill at arms, not brute force."

The fangy smile on Xcric's face was indecipherable. "Oh, yes. I'll tell them." He reigned in his Jhovall and dropped back through the ravening storm.

Takara leaned toward Gerrard, putting a hand on his knee. "You'd better be ready to fight, Gerrard."

"I don't trust the caterans," Gerrard replied. "They could just as easily kill Orim as the Cho-Arrim."

"And if the Cho-Arrim have already killed your friend- our friend-what then?"

Gerrard's smile was humorless. "Then I'll let the caterans kill as many as they want."

The dust cloud suddenly thinned and fell away entirely. The ever-present shroud of tan dissipated, replaced by a searing yellow sky, parched brown soil, and the vast green wall of the Rushwood.

The ancient forest was an imposing sight. Tree trunks, as wide around as mansions, reached to the sky. They were packed as tightly as teeth in a titan's smile. The lower boles and root bulbs had fused together into a smooth and sloping wall a hundred feet high. Above it, trunks divided and soared straight up, mossy columns in a colossal temple. They supported a lofty and dense ceiling of foliage and vines. Trees receded into dim infinity.

"Is this the right spot, Sisay?" Gerrard asked.

She nodded grimly, staring at a small map scroll. "Yes, if Mercadian cartography can be trusted." Sisay wiped dust from her face. The beautiful sheen of her skin appeared beneath it. She stared at the dark forest ahead. "It's another world in there, Gerrard. Outsiders are not welcome. It's no wonder the caterans before us got slaughtered."

Takara studied Sisay. "Those Cho-Arrim survive in a forest where caterans don't."

"Perhaps they survive because the forest wants them to," Sisay replied. "Stories in the Mercadian libraries tell that the Rushwood is a living entity, a great thinking thing. It will know we enter it. It will marshal defenses."

Gerrard nodded. "Then let us enter respectfully. Fight only if you are attacked. Relay the word." He set heels to his Jhovall's flanks.

He rode up the slanting ground beneath the forest wall. His tawny mount flung back the bank easily. It bounded, weary of dust flats and eager for woodlands. The Jhovall's claws sank in the loamy soil.

Takara, Sisay, and Tahngarth followed in his wake, and the Mercadian Guard and caterans brought up the rear. Though individually soft-footed, en masse the Jhovalls made a vast rumble on the sloping ground.

Gerrard's mount reached a wooden wall and climbed. Claws gripped ancient bark. The beast hurled itself upward. Gerrard leaned forward in the saddle. With its six legs, the Jhovall ascended with greater ease than a typical cat. In moments, it topped the forest wall and entered the cool, wet space between trees. Bounding over lichen and spongy humus, the tigercreature led the mounted corps into the forest.

"So," Gerrard murmured to himself, "this is the Rushwood."

Glaring dust gave way to damp murk. Sweat turned cold on necks. Shouts and rumbling footfalls were swallowed in a preternatural hush. The forest seemed to hold its breath as the army charged inward.

Gerrard motioned Sisay up beside his surging steed. Her mount matched his stride for stride. So quiet were their footfalls across moss and mushroom that the two old friends could speak to each other in hushed whispers.

"Where from here?" Gerrard asked.

"You should have brought your navigator," Sisay replied with a wry smile. "Though I wouldn't have flung Hanna into these fights, either." She consulted the map scroll. "We head southeast from here to the river. After we cross it, we head due south to reach the center of the wood. Then, of course, we hope Weatherlight is there."

"She's there, all right." Gerrard's eyes were faraway. "Does she call to you?"

"What?"

"Weatherlight. Does she call to you?" Gerrard asked.

Sisay blinked. "Maybe. Maybe I've just never listened…"

"She calls to me," Gerrard said, his voice husky among the rushing boles. "Even when I fled away from her, Weatherlight called to me."

Sisay shrugged. The green murk grew deeper around them, and a ghostly silver glow shone among the vast trees. "That's why I'm Weatherlight's captain, and you're her comrade, her destiny."

"She's there, all right," Gerrard repeated, gazing into the darkness. "She's in the center of the forest. The ChoArrim took her there."

A speculative look crossed Sisay's face. "I think Takara's been listening too much to these Mercadians-all this inhuman monster nonsense. Those weren't monsters we fought at the farm. The way they appeared and took Weatherlight- it was like the ship called to them too." Hesitantly, she ventured, "Perhaps she is part of their destiny too."

A muscle in Gerrard's jaw leaped. "We'll see, soon enough. We'll ride until dark and then set up camp. No fires tonight. Nothing that might… offend the forest."

Sisay gave an appraising nod. The forest scrolled dizzily past her mount. "Yes. I think Weatherlight does call to you."