The Amber Enchantress

FIVE A BARGAIN

“You over there!” called a man’s voice. “Wake up!”

The words came to Sadira across the chasm, echoing through her head with agonizing clarity. The voice was deep, with a glib quality that nettled the sorceress’s sensibilities and kindled an immediate distaste for the speaker.

“Are you alive?”

Sadira opened her eyes and found herself staring into the blazing orb of the sun. Terrible, sharp pangs stabbed through her eyes, and her vision disintegrated in a spray of crimson light. She squeezed her eyelids shut again, but the pain did not fade.

The sorceress’s head was not all that hurt. Her arm throbbed with dull agony, and her back ached along her entire spine. Her face stung as though someone had just slapped her, and the skin felt brittle and tight. From the thighs down, her legs prickled with the torment of a thousand needles stuck an inch into her flesh. Even her throat and tongue hurt, swollen as they were from the lack of water.

Sadira turned her head to the side and raised her eyelids again, this time forcing herself to keep them open. To her pained eyes, the other side of the canyon remained a blur. Nevertheless, she could tell that there was a group of people, probably a caravan of some sort, standing near the bridge she had destroyed.

Ignoring them, the sorceress focused her attention on her own situation. She still lay where she had collapsed after the battle with Nok, in the filthy soot she had created by defiling the land. Her wounded arm had turned dark purple, and was swollen to the size of her shoulder. The cuts themselves, crusted with blood and foul black dirt, were already inflamed and oozing.

When Sadira’s eyes fell below her waist, a gasp of horror rose to her parched throat. Several woody vines had sprouted from the crater where Nok had perished. They were grotesque gnarled things, coiled in a tangled mass and covered with grimy black leaves shaped like those of an oak tree. The plants had crept across the rocky ground to where she lay, entwining her legs in their tendrils and sinking their barbed thorns deep into her flesh.

Sadira shook her head, hoping this was a nightmare. She had not been chased by a tribe of halflings, the sorceress told herself. She had not killed Nok, and her cane had not been destroyed. Soon, she would awaken in Milo’s camp and discover it had all been an hallucination brought about by the strange spice in the Nibenese broy.

“Hey, over here!” called the glib voice.

Sadira looked across the canyon again. This time, her vision was clear, and she saw a tall, lean shape with silver hair. Behind him, scattered over the hard packed sands of the caravan trail, were a hundred more tall figures. Dozens of kanks were milling about on both sides of the road, foraging on the clumps of golden salt brush strewn here and there in the red sands.

“Elves,” Sadira hissed in a disgusted voice. “This is worse than a nightmare.”

Ignoring the elf who had called to her, Sadira found the end of the vine and pulled, ripping a half-dozen barbs from her skin. She regretted her action instantly. The rest of the plants recoiled, planting their barbs more deeply and setting her legs ablaze with pain.

The vines retreated toward the crater, dragging the sorceress along with them. Screaming, Sadira tried to kick free, but her struggles only set the barbs more deeply. She clutched at a soot-covered rock and managed to hold herself motionless. The vines continued to retract, ripping long gouges in her flesh, and finally she let go.

Black fume hissed from the crater, carrying the sorceress’s name on its breath: “Sadira.”

“Nok?” she screeched.

The sorceress reached back and grabbed her satchel, barely managing to catch it before passing out of reach. Pinning the cloth sack beneath her swollen arm, she reached inside and fumbled around until she found a gummy yellow ball. She tossed the bag aside and turned her palm toward the ground.

It took precious moments to collect the energy she needed, for all the plants within her normal range were dead. She had to reach out beyond the blackened area, to the cacti that had barely felt her touch earlier. Even when the sorceress found what she needed, the life-force did not flow smoothly through the corrupted ground. She had to concentrate hard to keep it from dissipating into the starved soil.

By the time Sadira had collected the power she needed, the vines had pulled her within a few yards of the hole. In the hissing black breath that came from the crater, she smelled the musty decay of the forest. Sadira threw the yellow ball into the hole and spoke the words of her spell, hoping she would survive what happened next.

For a moment, the sorceress continued to slide toward the crater, scratching and clawing at the filthy rocks in a vain attempt to stop the movement. Then a tremendous roar sounded from the hole and a cone of fire shot into the sky. Tongues of flame arced over Sadira’s head, lapping at the ground near her satchel and casting an orange glare over the rocks at her side. Searing heat scorched her back and the smell of singed hair filled her nostrils. the sorceress did not complain, for the grip of the vines relaxed, and she no longer felt herself being pulled toward the crater.

A rousing cheer drifted from the far side of the chasm, as though she had put on a show for the enjoyment of the elves. Sadira looked across the canyon and saw them waving their lances in the air.

“Filthy thieves,” the sorceress whispered.

She turned around and faced the crater. The smoke of her fireball still rose from the hole in black wisps, carrying with it a few charred oak leaves. Most of the vines had been reduced to lines of ash, although a twisted mass of blackened fibers was still draped over Sadira’s legs.

Hissing in pain, the sorceress began pulling the thorns of these vines from her flesh. When she was at last free, Sadira struggled to her feet and grabbed her satchel. She turned and staggered away as fast as she could.

“Hey, woman! Where are you going?” called the elf. “Isn’t this your kank over here?”

Sadira ignored him and continued onward. The last time she had listened to an elf had been before Tyr’s liberation, when a slick-tongued rogue named Radurak had offered to help her escape a pair of the king’s guards. In the end, he had stolen her spellbook and sold her into slavery. She did not see any reason to think this occasion would be any different.

“Stop!” the elf cried, his voice echoing down the length of the canyon. “We just want to help.” He did not sound like he wanted to help. To Sadira, he sounded angry.

When Sadira did not obey, the elf made his final plea. “It won’t cost anything!”

The sorceress paid him no attention, for although they often claimed otherwise, elves never helped anyone for free. She continued up the road a few more steps, then stumbled and fell to her knees.

“Woman!” the elf yelled, no longer trying to conceal his irritation. “We can see what happened. Halfling tracks all over, a carrier drone with a spear in her thorax, your legs torn to shreds, your arm the color of a hatchling queen. You need help-and soon.”

Sadira looked toward the elf and squinted, amazed at his eyesight. She could barely tell the color of his hair, yet he could see her clearly enough to detail her wounds. She had heard that the vision of full-blooded elves was keen, but she had not guessed it was this good.

When the sorceress made no move to rise or to answer, the elf continued, “I’ll save you if you bring me across!”

Sadira frowned, wondering how the elf knew she could. When she looked around, however, the answer was clear. From the swath of land she had blackened, it was obvious that, in her efforts to escape the halflings, she had used at least one powerful spell to destroy the bridge. It would not be unreasonable for the elves to assume that a sorceress of such power could levitate one of their number across the canyon.

After a few moments of thought, Sadira decided to accept the offer. It was certainly possible that the elf would betray his word and try to take advantage of her, but that hardly mattered at the moment. Whatever his intentions, he was right about one thing: without help, she would soon die. The sorceress rose and started to leave the blackened area.

“What’s the matter with you?” screamed the angry elf. “Don’t you speak the trade language?”

Sadira did not even try to shout an explanation, for she knew the words would not escape her swollen throat. Instead she waved an arm in the direction she was going, pointing to an area where plenty of cacti still rose from between the stones.

The elf and his tribe finally understood. As she stumbled forward, they mirrored her progress, moving along the dunes rimming the opposite side of the canyon. It took Sadira several minutes to travel the short distance to undefiled ground, but eventually she reached a place where the plant life showed no sign of the destruction she caused.

Sadira put her satchel on the ground, then withdrew a small parchment and rolled it up. Holding the tube to her lips she cast one of her simplest spells.

“Tie a line to an arrow and shoot it across the canyon,” she whispered, her parched throat aching even from that small exertion.

The elf looked from Sadira to where the voice had sounded at his side, then spoke to his companions. One of them quickly returned with an arrow attached to a coil of twine and fired it across the chasm. The shaft clattered to the ground a few yards away. Sadira quickly retrieved it before the string, which was settling into the canyon, dragged it away. The sorceress looped the line of braided plant fibers around a rock. That done, she lifted he parchment tube to her lips again. “Hold your end of the line,” she whispered. “And bring water.”

The elf nodded, then sent two companions back to the kank herd. A short time later, they returned with a ceramic jug and gave it to the speaker. Sadira found it peculiar that they would carry something as precious as water in a vessel that could be so easily broken, but she quickly put her misgivings aside as she pondered the size of the jar. It was so big that the elf had to use both hands to carry it. Apparently, he intended to be sure she had plenty to drink.

“I’m ready!” he yelled.

Sadira prepared for her next spell, making a small loop out of a piece of leather string. This she tossed in the elf’s direction as she spoke her mystic phrase. The loop vanished, and the elf rose off the ground. Sadira went to the line and pulled, bringing him the across the chasm as though he weighed nothing at all.

The elf arrived, an overbearing grin on his face. He was a huge man, standing fully two heads taller than Sadira. The light burnoose covering his frame did not conceal his barreled chest, and the thick forearms extending from the sleeves of his robe were heavily muscled. His silver hair hung over his back in an unruly tail that left his sharp-tipped ears completely exposed. Even by the standards of his race, the elf’s features were singularly gaunt and keen, with high spiked brows, a nose as thin as a dagger blade, and a pointed chin. The sorceress wondered if he were ill, for his flesh was pallid and his gray eyes framed by dark circles of exhaustion.

As the elf stepped onto solid ground, a large purse of metal coins jingled under his robes. To Sadira, it sounded as though he were carrying a considerable fortune on his person. A distrustful light flashed in the elf’s eyes, and she realized that her expression had betrayed her astonishment. She quickly lowered her brow.

“Thanks for your aid,” she said, hoping her smile would not betray how ill-at-ease she felt in the elf’s presence.

He returned her gesture, though his smile seemed far from sincere. “My tribesmen are your servants,” he said, bowing so deeply that water sloshed from the jug’s mouth. The elf’s gray eyes bugged out. “By the sun, I am careless!”

He tried to catch what he had spilled by swinging the bottom of the vessel downward and shoving the mouth under the stream of falling liquid. The elf succeeded only in striking a stone, knocking a large hole in the jug and splashing its contents over the ground. Sadira leaped forward and scratched at the wet sand in a vain attempt to salvage a few gulps of water, succeeding only in scraping the skin from her knuckles. She looked up at the elf.

“You did that on purpose!” she rasped, barely able to squeeze the words from her aching throat.

The elf looked hurt. “Why would I do such a thing?” he asked. “Water is too precious. I might as well throw my silver into the canyon!” He waved his free arm at the chasm.

“You might as well throw yourself in,” Sadira commented sourly, snatching the jug from his hands. “I’m well versed in the ways of elves. You want something from me, and until you get it, you’ll keep having ‘accidents’ with the water I need.”

The elf frowned. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”

“You haven’t saved me yet,” Sadira answered. She held the jug to her cracked lips and tipped her head back. A few dregs of water, drops clinging to the interior walls, trickled down her throat.

“But I shall,” the elf said. He went to the canyon edge. “We have plenty of water over there.”

“And how will you bring it over here?” Sadira asked, throwing the ruined jug into the abyss.

He gave her a gray-toothed grin. “Perhaps you could bring over one of my warriors?”

“And then another, and another, after that, until I’ve brought the whole tribe over,” Sadira concluded.

The elf nodded. “That would be kind of you.”

“Forget it,” Sadira said. “You’re the only one I had the strength to bring over today. If you hadn’t wasted the water, it might have been possible for me to bring the rest of tribe over tomorrow.”

“Come now, surely you can-”

“I can’t use that spell again until tomorrow,” Sadira said, twisting her cracked lips into a sardonic smile. “But as you can see, I’ll be dead before then.”

The elf’s grin vanished. “I’m trapped here?”

“Not at all,” Sadira said, gesturing across the chasm. “You’re free to leave when you like.”

The elf studied the sorceress with a mistrustful scowl, then stepped away from the rim and hopped into the air. When he dropped back to the ground, he smiled and wagged a long finger at her. “You are a brave woman to make jokes at a time like this,” he said, kneeling at her side. “Let me look at your wounds.”

Sadira allowed him to examine her shredded legs.

“These are not so bad,” he said, indicating the thorn wounds. He shifted his attention, to her arm. “But this …” He let the sentence trail off, shaking his head.

The elf suddenly reached up and, pushing away Sadira’s interfering hand, undid the belt she had tied around her arm. The whole limb erupted into agony as circulation returned to it, and blood began to ooze from its cuts. Screaming in pain, Sadira shoved her tormentor away.

“Give me my belt,” she commanded, holding out her hand.

“Your arm must have blood or it will die,” the elf responded. He rose and threw the leather strap into the canyon.

“What good is it to have a live arm, if I bleed to death in an hour?” Sadira demanded.

“What good is it to live an hour, if your arm will kill you in a week?” the elf countered. He studied the sorceress’s savaged arm for a while longer, then asked, “Are you sure you can’t bring just one more person over the canyon?”

“I’m sure,” Sadira lied. Despite her thirst and her injuries, the sorceress thought it wisest to complete her negotiations before using any more magic.

“Pity,” said the elf, pulling off his burnoose. Beneath it, he wore a wide belt from which hung several heavy purses, a sheath containing a steel dagger, and his breechcloth. “In my tribe there is a windsinger who has healing powers. Perhaps I should have sent him over first.”

“But that wouldn’t have been prudent business,” Sadira finished for him.

“I didn’t realize your situation was so desperate,” the elf said, shrugging.

He stepped toward her, holding his huge burnoose by the sleeves and shaking it out. Unsure of his intentions, Sadira reached for her satchel. Her tormentor quickly moved to stop her, placing a huge foot on the sack.

“Why so afraid?” he asked, his lip turned up in a sneer that he may or may not have intended to be a smile. With exaggerated gentility, he placed the burnoose over her shoulders, covering the skin that was left exposed by her own tattered cape, and pulling the hood up over her head. “We must keep the sun off. You will live longer.”

“So I can bring your tribe across the canyon?”

“We only want to help, little one.” The elf cast a sad glance across the chasm. “Of course, I could do much more if my people were with us.”

The sorceress studied the elf for several moments. His sinewy body was fairly laced with knife scars, and there were other, more gruesome blemishes. If he had survived so many injuries, she suspected, the elf was telling the truth about his healer.

Even knowing that, however, Sadira hesitated to strike a deal. The enchantment she would have to employ was a complicated one that demanded more energy than she could summon without destroying another swath of land, and she was not sure she was prepared to commit such an act again. Her mentor had often chastised her for stretching her powers or sorcery to their limits, but until the fight with Nok, Sadira had never resorted to an intentional and massive degradation of the land.

Though the sorceress believed she had been justified in saving herself then, the present issue was less clear. Nok had been an imminent danger, but the threat now was not immediate. If she resorted to defiler magic to save herself from eventual death, would she use it out of simple convenience the next time?

Yet, her only other choice was to die. Considering the difficulties and hardships she would undergo during the search for the Pristine Tower, and the dim likelihood of surviving without her magical cane, it might be best to accept her fate now. But if she did, a thousand Tyrian citizens would die with her, and a thousand more each time the Dragon returned. Tyr would be no different than it had been during Kalak’s reign.

Sadira could not let that happen.

She met the elf’s gaze. “What will you do if I can’t bring your tribe across?”

The elf pointed westward. “A path descends into the Canyon of Guthay from both sides,” he said. “Its is only three days’ run, but the beasts that live in the bottom have a taste for our kanks.”

Remembering the foul smell her mount had emitted upon being wounded, Sadira made a sour face. “Nothing could eat a kank.”

“Every creature is food for some other,” the elf said. “That is the law of the desert.”

Satisfied that there was no way to bring the windsinger across the chasm without casting her spell, Sadira decided to strike the best bargain she could in return for her service. “Your healer will look after me until I am well.”

“Done,” the elf said.

Sadira held up her hand. “You will supply me with plenty of food and water.”

He nodded. “Of course-we are good hosts.”

“And you’ll escort me to the Pristine Tower.”

The elf studied for several moments. Finally, he said, “You are cunning. I like that.”

Sadira scowled at the flattery. “What is your answer? Will you take me there or not?”

“No, no, of course not,” said the elf grinning smugly. “We both know that if I agree to such a thing, you cannot trust me to keep any other promise.”

A terrible thought came occurred to Sadira. “Why not?” she demanded. “The tower’s real, isn’t it?”

“It’s real enough,” the elf answered, raising a peaked eyebrow at Sadira’s question. “But only a fool-”

“Then you must take me there,” Sadira interrupted, breathing easier. “Unless you prefer to risk your kanks in the chasm.”

“I would drive my kanks off the canyon rim before willingly coming within sight of the Pristine Tower,” countered the elf. “Why does one of such beauty wish to visit it?”

“That’s my business,” Sadira answered. “Why are you so afraid of it?”

“If you don’t know, you have no business going there,” the elf replied evasively. He looked across the chasm to his waiting tribe. “But I’ll take you to Nibenay. With luck and enough silver, you’ll find a guide there.”

Sadira nodded, convinced that she would strike no better bargin with the elf. “I’ll need my spellbook,” she said, motioning at her satchel. “And a couple of hours of quiet.”

“In that case, we’d better cover your wounds,” the elf said, ripping a pair of strips from the hem of Sadira’s tattered cape.

By the time the sun had begun to descend toward the jagged peaks in the west, Sadira was ready to cast her spell. Whispering in a parched voice, she told the elf to have his tribe line up near the rim of the canyon. They should be ready to move quickly when she gave the word.

After the elf had relayed her instructions, Sadira turned her palm toward the ground. Before summoning the energy she needed, however, she turned to him and said, “After I finish, there’ll be nothing but ash and rock on this hillside. If the desecration angers your tribe, I trust they’ll be wise enough not to show it.”

“The desert is vast, and there is plenty of forage elsewhere,” he replied. “Besides my tribe understands sorcery. My own daughter dabbles in the art.”

“Good,” Sadira said. “I’d hate to do to you what I did to the halflings.”

The elf narrowed his eyes, “Among friends, there is no need for threats.”

“Among friends, I wouldn’t make them.”

Sadira spread her fingers and summoned the energy she needed. The hillside was quickly covered with withered, blackened cacti. Not wishing to see the damage she caused, the sorceress closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on draining every last bit of energy from the ground. When she had cast the spell to destroy Nok’s bridge, she had been too angry and frightened to notice her emotions. This time, she had no such insulation; she just felt dirty.

At last, the flow ceased. Sadira was at once exhausted and invigorated, her body prickling with stolen life-force. She opened her eyes and pointed her finger at the far side of the canyon, speaking the words of the spell. In front of the elf tribe, a dark circle appeared in the emptiness over the canyon.

“Tell them to jump,” Sadira gasped. She backed away from the canyon rim and collapsed to her haunches, clutching her satchel to her breast. Her vision was swimming with black dots, and she felt as though she might retch at any moment.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” the elf demanded.

Sadira looked up and waved her hand at the blackened scarp. “Do you think I would have done this just to kill a few elves?” she rasped. “The portal won’t last long. Tell them to jump!”

The elf did as she asked and the first warrior stepped into the black circle. When he appeared on Sadira’s side of the canyon, a great cheer rose from the rest of the tribe. Within a few moments, they were driving their reluctant kanks into the black circle, then, as the terrified beasts emerged on the other side of the abyss, chasing them up the scarp. The elf came and stood next to Sadira, who watched the procession through drooping eyelids, too exhausted to ask which was the windsinger.

Some time later, the sorceress felt her satchel being pulled from her arms. Her eyes popped open and Sadira found herself staring at a tall woman with close-cropped red hair. The elf was strikingly beautiful, with a regal nose, pouting mouth, and almond-shaped eyes as deep and brilliant as sapphires. Cords of sinuous muscle covered her long legs and lanky arms, and the waist of her slender body was unbelievably thin and wasplike.

Standing next to her was a massive creature of one of the New Races. He had two legs and two arms, but there ended his resemblance to anything faintly elven. His knobby hide was mottled and faintly reptilian in appearance. Before Sadira’s eyes, it was changing from the rusty red hue of the sands across the valley to the inky black pigment of the defiled lands. The man-beast’s limbs were as thick and round as faro trees, and knotted with wide bands of muscle. For feet, he had huge pads with three bulbous toes, each sporting an ivory-white claw. His hands were his largest single feature, with four bolelike fingers and a stumpy thumb.

The thing’s face was all muzzle, his enormous smiling mouth filled top and bottom with needlelike teeth. His eyes were set on opposite sides of his head, so that they could look straight ahead or to opposite sides as he chose. Directly behind these giant orbs were a pair of eloquent ears, triangular in shape and currently turned to the sides in an expression of solace.

“I am the windsinger Magnus,” he said, speaking in a surprisingly gentle voice. He waved a cumbersome hand at the elven woman next to him. “This is Rhayn, daughter to Chief Faenaeyon.”

“Faenaeyon!” Sadira croaked, searching for the tall elf whom she had first brought across.

Magnus’s ears turned forward in curiosity. “I assumed you two had introduced yourselves,” he said.

“My father’s name means something to you?” demanded Rhayn, studying Sadira’s face more closely.

The sorceress shook her head. “I’ve heard the name before, but it was probably someone else.”

“Unlikely,” said Rhayn. “Elves are named for the first interesting thing they do after learning to run. In our tongue, Faenaeyon means ’faster than the lion.” How many children do you suppose survive to bear such a name?”

“Not many,” Sadira conceded. As she realized that she had probably just met the father who had abandoned her into slavery, the sorceress had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“So, what have you heard about Faenaeyon?” Rhayn asked.

“Before sorcery was permitted in Tyr, he was known as someone who sold spell ingredients,” Sadira said, deciding it would be wiser to keep her secret.

“That would describe half the elves in the city,” Rhayn said.

When Sadira offered no further explanation, the elf gave Magnus a doubting look, then took a large waterskin off her lean shoulder and passed it to Sadira. From the vessel’s lack of seams and bulbous shape, the sorceress guessed it had once been the stomach or bladder of some desert beast. She opened the neck and drank deeply of the rank water, hardly able to take her eyes off her father’s face.

Sadira was surprised at the emotions she felt. To be sure, there was anger and hatred. A large part of her wanted to strike him down and, after revealing her identity, leave him in the scorching sun to die alone and maimed. Another part of her, less murderous but just as vindictive, wanted to tell him how she and her mother had suffered over the years, and, by blinding and deafening him, inflict some measure of agony in return for what they had endured.

That third aspect of Sadira’s feeling confused her the most. Part of her didn’t hate her father at all. Deep inside, she was amazed to see him standing before her. Until now, he had always been a distant abstraction, an enigma whose thoughtless cruelty had caused her a lifetime of pain. Now Sadira was merely curious about him. She wanted to know what kind of man he was, and whether he had ever tried to find out what had happened to Barakah and his unborn child.

After several moments of allowing the tepid water from Rhyan’s waterskins run to down her throat, Sadira finally removed the neck from her mouth. “My thanks,” she said, handing it back to the woman who, she realized, was her half-sister.

Magnus kneeled at the sorceress’s side. “Allow me to see these wounds before we resume the run.”

As the windsinger’s thick fingers began fumbling at the bandages on the sorceress’s arm, Faenaeyon opened her satchel and began to look through it.

Sadira was on her feet immediately, the palm of her good hand facing the ground and ready to draw energy for a spell. “Close it!” she demanded.

Cringing, Rhayn stepped away from Sadira’s side. “Don’t try to stop him,” she warned, half-whispering. “It’s not worth it.”

“Put my satchel down!” Sadira insisted, stepping toward her father.

The elf continued to paw through the sack, hardly looking up. “Why? Are you hiding something from me?”

“We had an agreement,” Sadira said. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t honor it.”

Faenaeyon pulled her purse from the satchel. “I said my tribe would take you to Nibenay,” he sneered. “I didn’t say how much I’d charge.”

He tossed Sadira’s satchel at her feet, then turned away with her coin purse still in his hand. The sorceress started after her father, already drawing the power for the spell that would kill him.

Magnus wrapped a huge arm around Sadira’s waist and lifted her off the ground, at the same time closing his fist around her hand. “Are you as mad as he is?”