The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 12

Matt leaped aside and the reptile rammed its nose into the ground behind him. Matt danced away, fighting the atavistic fear of snakes, and drew his sword, chanting.

“How strange this bitter chill doth thee embrace! The hawk, for all his feathers, groweth cold, The snake slows, blood thick'ning pace by pace, Lacking warmth of flock in woolly fold.”

He hoped Keats wouldn't mind.

Frost appeared on the rock nearby, and a blast of cold air hit Matt, very welcome in the desert's heat. The reptile slowed in mid-strike, leaving Matt plenty of time to sidestep and jab it with his sword. The snakeman was made of sterner stuff than he'd thought, though—the sword's tip skidded on scales. The snake head turned—Matt could have sworn he heard it creak—and its body tensed, drawing in on itself, preparing for another lunge.

Stegoman, however, had his own internal heat source and wasn't slowed one bit. He came roaring up, blasting a ten-foot tongue of flame before him. The heat thawed the snakeman, whose strike caught Matt by surprise, bowling him over—but his feet came up by reflex, knees bending under the enemy's weight. As he did, the stranger's robe flew open, showing only a scaly-skinned humanoid body, very skinny, with no genitals or nipples, only scales—and around its neck a chain with a medallion showing a cobra's head. Matt didn't have time for close study, though—he grabbed a scaly arm and kicked with both legs, catapulting the reptiloid over his head and ten feet beyond. Matt rolled, came to his feet, and ran. Behind him, he heard the sound of a giant blowtorch. A second later the scent of roasting meat wafted his way. Matt wrinkled his nose—it smelled acrid—and turned back, afraid he knew what he was going to see.

He was right; Stegoman was just finishing a very long swallow, and the ashes of burned cloth lay at his feet with something bright winking among them. Matt came back, his feet dragging, and looked down—it was the cobra-head medallion, sure enough, and he suspected the ashes were what was left of the cowled robe.

He stirred them with his foot, seeking emotional refuge in business. “Could be a coincidence.”

“What, that a snakeman wore an amulet with the sign of a cobra's head?” Stegoman's mouth lolled open in a saurian grin. “Scarcely a coincidence.”

Matt waved away the smell of barbecue. “It has to be a coincidence, because the name of that Central Asian goddess the sorcerer told us about means ‘black snake.’ It sounds too paranoid to think it's anything but an accident that we should happen to meet a snakeman wearing a cobra medallion while we're trying to find the princess she attempted to kidnap.”

“Perhaps.” Nictating membranes slid over Stegoman's eyes, giving them a hooded look. “Show me how this ‘paranoid’ that you speak of thinks, Matthew. What, if this creature is not on this road by chance?”

“If it's not a coincidence,” Matt said, “then it means somebody tied in with this snake-goddess cult knows where we're going and sent this creature to stop us.”

“An interesting notion.” Stegoman gazed off toward the horizon. “Who would its commander have been?”

“Possibly even Kala Nag herself,” Matt said, “but more likely one of her generals—I don't believe in pagan gods much.”

“Perhaps unwise, in this world,” Stegoman commented.

“Perhaps,” Matt agreed. “Primitive people could mistake a supernatural creature for a god, after all. Seems more likely, though, that it was a human mastermind who thought of reviving Kala Nag and of sending this monster after us.”

Stegoman frowned. “There is more in your thoughts—I can tell by your tone.”

Matt sighed and spilled the rest. “Well, if there really is a Kala Nag, and she didn't know where we were before, she sure does now.”

“A sobering thought,” Stegoman agreed, then turned away his head to belch, which involved a five-foot tongue of flame.

Matt looked up. “So how was our late enemy?”

“Like chicken,” Stegoman answered, “a rather large chicken.”

Late in the afternoon, the castle woke up. Delightful aromas wafted from the kitchens, and the people filed into the huge dining hall, taking bowls from a stack and filing past cooks who served them a porridge with a strange but enticing smell, and mugs of a thick, dark, aromatic liquid. Balkis and Anthony joined the line and found the food delicious, though they had difficulty eating, for their neighbors showered them with questions and kept them so busy talking that they had to sneak in quick bites.

As the sun neared the horizon, the castle began to buzz with activity. Looking down from the battlements, Balkis and Anthony saw dozens of camels and elephants being led toward the gate from huge stables built against the walls. People assembled with mattocks over their shoulders; more people lined up with baskets.

“They may sleep by day, but by night they look to be every bit as industrious as the ants,” Balkis commented.

“But what amazing livestock!” Anthony said. “Could not oxen do the work they need?”

“Camels are for caravans,” Balkis said thoughtfully. “Could oxen travel the desert?”

“Not very far,” Anthony admitted. “But neither can elephants—unless some carry water for the rest.”

“We shall discover soon.” Balkis pointed toward the west. “The sun sinks even now.”

The guard who had admitted them came up smiling and bowed, touching brow, lips, and breast. “I am Jabar, and I have been released from my vigil to be your guide tonight, esteemed guests.”

“Oh, how kind!” Balkis said. “But surely we need not trouble you—we have but to follow the river.”

“You could find your way,” Jabar agreed, “but you will go more quickly if I am there to steer you to quieter places. The valley is a-bustle with activity at night.”

“Then we shall be glad of your company.” Anthony bowed, imitating Jabar's salute. “Thank you, esteemed one.”

Trumpets blew from the gate towers, and Balkis looked up in alarm. “Are we beset?”

“Not at all,” Jabar assured her. “That is only the signal that the ants have gone back underground and it is safe to come out of our strongholds—for see! The sun has set!”

Looking toward the west, Balkis and Anthony saw that the last sliver of scarlet had slipped below the horizon, though the sky was still lit with an afterglow of rose and lavender. Other horns took up the call from other castles until the whole valley resounded with their music. As the sound faded into echoes, the gate swung wide and the people streamed out to begin their night's work. After them came drovers with their line of camels, and last of all came the elephants, their mahouts astride their huge necks.

“Why do you need such giant beasts of burden?” Anthony asked.

“Because they will carry gold,” Jabar answered. Then he laughed at their stares. “No, there are not so very many bushels of gold nuggets that we need vast baskets—but the metal is very heavy, and the pack that would hold a moderate load of corn would break a donkey's back were it loaded with gold.”

Balkis stared at the line of elephants swaying away into the darkness. “That is still a great deal of gold! Where do your people find it?”

“Each takes his turn at each task,” Jabar explained. “Some collect the gold the ants bring up, while others drive the elephants and camels out of the castles to bear it far away to our kings' treasuries. It is with this gold that they pay their tribute to Prester John.”

Balkis had a notion that the kings kept more than they sent to Maracanda, but this certainly was neither the time nor the place to say so.

“Would you like to see the work?” Jabar asked. “You shall pass by it on the road along the valley.”

“Very much,” Balkis and Anthony said together, then glanced at one another with small embarrassed smiles.

Jabar said nothing, but his eye gleamed. “Come! Let us walk awhile in the coolness!”

He led them down a flight of stairs and out the gate. The night was soft, the breeze a caress of velvet, the air filled with the fragrance of wildflowers. Balkis glanced at Anthony again and found he was watching her. She smiled, suddenly feeling shy, then looked away, blushing.

“The moon comes,” Anthony breathed, “and how huge it is!”

Balkis looked up and saw the golden bowl rising over the valley rim. It was three-quarters full and seemed gigantic indeed for a desert moon, no doubt magnified by the humidity of the valley. She sighed with happiness and started to reach out for his hand, then caught herself and stopped. He was only a traveling companion, after all.

At the bottom of the slope, they saw the cones of anthills as high as they were tall, breaking the flat floor of the valley at odd intervals, not even in a straggling row or wandering arc, but completely at random. Dots of light clustered around them, more dots moved across the plain, but others were distant, almost like stars come to earth. Balkis realized they were torches.

As they neared the first of the anthills, they saw the need for the clustered lights. They burned atop poles stuck in the earth, and by their light men and women sifted the dirt of the anthill with shovels and sieves. As they shook the wire grids, the soil fell through—and left nuggets of gold behind. These the workers poured into a padded basket.

Balkis stared. “I did not doubt when I heard it, but I never truly believed it until now!”

“Aye,” Anthony agreed, then asked Jabar, “why do the ants bring up gold?”

Jabar shrugged. “Because it is in their way, most likely. Why do ants bring up any earth? To remove it from their galleries.”

“Then why would they so earnestly pursue any who take it?” Anthony asked.

“Because it is theirs,” Jabar answered. “They would as likely chase flecks of mica or pebbles of quartz that were taken from their hills.”

“Why, then, do they not wage war against your castles?”

Jabar started to answer, but a voice out of the darkness called,” 'Ware! Make way!” and he caught their arms to hurry them aside. Balkis saw a huge shadow swaying toward them, looming higher and higher with every step. It came into the pool of torchlight and she saw it was an elephant with huge panniers strapped to its sides. The mahout rode its neck and steered it with prods of his ankus. Balkis noticed that the mahouts didn't use the hook of the goad, just the point. The huge beast shuffled past and halted by the anthill. The workers stopped their digging and sifting and stepped aside. The mahout gave the elephant a command, and it curled its trunk around the gold-filled basket, lifted it up, and dumped it into a pannier. Then the mahout tapped the side of its head and spoke again, and the huge creature swayed away into the night. The workers took their basket and went on to the next hill.

“Is the elephant taking the gold back to the castle so soon, or will he wait till both his panniers are filled?” Balkis asked.

“He will not go back to the castle.” Jabar's teeth flashed in a smile. “When both his panniers are filled, his mahout will direct him to join the caravan, and they shall leave the valley well before sunrise.”

“So soon as that?” Balkis asked in surprise. “So much gold in one night?”

“The panniers will only be half full,” Jabar said, “for the metal is heavy, and there will be only half a dozen animals in the caravan—but yes, the ants do bring up that much of a night.” He turned to lead them away into the darkness, explaining, “The caravan will journey a day's march to an oasis, where others will join it every evening. When there are twenty, they will depart for their homes.”

Anthony asked, “So the ants do not attack your castles because there is never any gold there?”

“Never,” Jabar confirmed. “The last camel leaves the valley at sunrise, and by the time the ants come up for the day, the scent of gold is too distant for them to follow.”

“How clever!” Balkis said.

They had climbed high enough up the road toward the valley's rim that they left the anthills behind. The roadside torches now illuminated people hoeing rows of plants.

“So you grow your own produce?” Balkis asked.

Before their guide could answer, a voice from the darkness called, “Clear track!” Jabar pulled them back from the roadway. A string of camels came by with four elephants behind them. Each was piled high with bales of goods securely tied.

Balkis stared as they passed. “These do not carry gold, nor do they travel northward.”

“Indeed not,” Jabar agreed. “That is a caravan returning to the valley. Those bales hold salt meat and live poultry, vegetables and flour, cloth, and other goods that we need.”

“Your kings send them?” Balkis asked.

“Why not? The caravan must come back for more gold anyway—why not let it bring supplies?”

“Do you never have fresh food?”

“Every castle has a garden within its walls,” Jabar replied.

“But what of the fields these people cultivate?”

Jabar led them back onto the road as the last elephant swayed by. “By night, we all take turns in the fields, plowing and sowing—but the ants do the reaping.”

“What a waste of labor!” Anthony cried with a farmer's indignation.

“Not at all, young man,” Jabar told him. “There is little enough game in this valley, after all—as soon as an animal wanders in, the ants bring it down. No, they must have food to eat, or they will not live to dig us more gold—and they are quite content with grain and vegetables. We harvest some for ourselves, of course—but not by day.”

Anthony shuddered. “I should think not!”

A mile farther on, Jabar led them out onto the plateau again. Balkis looked back over a long canyon sprinkled with warm yellow lights. “It looks like a garden of enchantment,” she said, “but it holds so much danger!”

“It did for our ancestors, surely,” Jabar said, “but with our castles and our knowledge of the ants' ways, it is safe enough now. Indeed, we scarcely ever lose a worker, and any large city has far more deaths due to footpads and accidents.”

Balkis turned back to him with an uncertain smile. “You seem to like it well enough”

Jabar nodded vigorously. “There is a camaraderie, a closeness and sharing, that I have found nowhere else. It may be born of the constant awareness of the danger that lurks outside our walls, but it is all the stronger for that.” He fairly beamed at her, still nodding. “It is a good life, maiden, and if you tire of the jealousies and backbiting of the wide world, remember us.”

“I shall,” Balkis promised, and Anthony nodded agreement.

The stars told them it was midnight when Balkis and Anthony came to another valley. He frowned, gazing at its rocky depths and single wavering strip of greenery, almost black in the moonlight. “The river must plunge underground,” he said, “then rise again here.”

Balkis nodded. “I would guess it has done so for thousands of years, and has carved out these valleys by its passage.”

“If that is so,” Anthony said, “it must have once been a mighty river indeed, for these valleys are a mile and more in width.”

“Perhaps it still is, when the rains are heavy in the mountains.” Balkis pointed downward at a line of broken branches and brush in the limbs of the trees nearest them. “How else would such wrack have been spread so high?”

“A good thought,” Anthony acknowledged. “We are not likely to hear thunder so early in spring, but if we do, let us climb back up here as quickly as possible.”

“If we hear thunder,” Balkis agreed. “Since we do not, I would rather travel near water while we can.”

Anthony agreed, and they started down into the valley as the moon swung lower in the sky. They found no road, only a deer-track, so it took them two hours to reach the valley floor.

“Strange that so few travelers have come here,” Anthony said, but looked over his shoulder at the skeletal branches of oak and ash with the stars behind them and shivered.

“The night brings fear of spirits,” Balkis agreed, “but only to us human folk. The animals who made this track have no dread of such things.”

In the distance an owl hooted. A few minutes later they heard the death-scream of some small animal.

Anthony shuddered. “Perhaps we might do best to build a campfire against the gloom and walk this valley by day.”

“Do you fear things you cannot see?” Balkis jibed.

“Quite right,” Anthony affirmed. “I fear them far more than the things I can see.”

His honesty disarmed Balkis, and she went onward feeling almost ashamed.

They followed the riverbank under bare branches. Balkis shivered in the chill of the desert night and drew her cloak more firmly around her. She had to admit that the leafless trees and silent flow of dark water were unnerving, and reminded herself that they would not be so by day. In the distance something howled, and something else screamed. She shivered—only from the chill, she told herself.

Then she began to hear a different sound.

It was soft at first, soft and distant, but she knew it at once— the drums of war. They rattled in time to men's steps, and they were coming closer, from in front of her, and coming quickly.

Anthony looked about desperately. “Where can we hide?”

A trumpet blared in the distance. Across the valley another answered it, but with a different rhythm.

“Why do they march at night?” Anthony cried.

“If they meant to catch their enemy unaware, they have failed,” Balkis said.

The sounds ceased to approach; they stayed more or less distant, but shouting broke out, and with it the clash of steel, then the screams of the dying.

“Let us go out of this valley, and quickly!” Balkis turned toward the slope half a mile away. “I dislike the feel of this place.”

“Flowing water seems less important now,” Anthony agreed, and turned with her.

Across the meadow they fled by starlight, their eyes on the ground, watching for holes and rocks. The night wind sped no faster than they, nor the owl who sailed overhead, fleeing the shouting and the clamor.

“Only a hundred yards more,” Anthony panted, and sure enough the ground was already rising toward the hillside before them. Then the ground dipped, and a soldier in leather armor rose up before them, circular shield barring their way, battle-axe already swinging down at them.