Rise of the Death Dealer (43 page)

Gath threw them aside, his body cocked and eyes hunting for the large bat.

Jakar, still on the wagon’s roof, crouched with his crossbow aimed at the
dark sky.

Brown John, sword in hand, stood in front of the wagon staring with dazed
eyes at the carnage. Everything had happened so fast he had missed the fight
entirely.

Only Cobra, shielding Robin with her body, saw the huge bat swoosh out from
under the wagon. She screamed a warning, and it knocked her down, buried its
claws in the leopard-skin halter covering Robin’s shoulder.

Screaming with pain, Robin twisted violently, and the bat’s slashing fangs
missed her neck, got tangled in her hair. She flailed at it with her arms as its
weight bore her down, then Cobra came off the ground and threw herself
heedlessly against it. Her body collided with the bat’s chest and drove the
creature off of Robin onto the ground. It thrashed and squealed, clawing and
biting the woman’s hands, and quickly flew off.

Gath dove at it, but it escaped under the wagon.

Cobra jumped up screaming, “Kill it! Kill it!”

Gath, Jakar and Brown John spread out around the wagon, but there was no sign
of the creature. It had vanished into the enveloping darkness.

Robin hid behind Gath, her hands braced against his shoulder. It pulsed and
dripped blood, and she backed away from him, shuddering and whimpering, eyes
wide with terror. The bat dove out of the sky into the firelight, its hurtling
body aimed at her, and she screamed, turned and ran.

Gath broke for Robin as she tripped on one of the small fires and fell,
twenty feet away.

Jakar, his eyes as cold as death, followed the bat’s flight with his crossbow
and fired.

The bolt caught the bat in the gut. It squealed, flapped wildly off course
for a brief moment, then dove again, fangs aimed at the back of Robin’s neck as
she rose onto hands and knees.

Cobra turned as white as a glacier: the impact would break the girl’s neck.

Gath, his eyes now red fire, screamed a harsh guttural howl and launched his
body into the air. Robin turned in terror at the sound, presenting her terrified
face to the descending fangs of the bat. They came within a foot of her
shuddering cheeks, and Gath’s fingers tore into the creature, ripping it off
course.

Gath and the huge bat hit the dirt and rolled into one of the fires. With his
back squirming against the coals, Gath fought for a better grip on the
screaming, clawing demon spawn. The fire spit sparks and embers, and smoke
billowed up around him, concealing his actions.

Cobra raced up, shielding Robin behind her, and Jakar and Brown John joined
them.

There was a long squeal from within the smoke, then it was cut short, and the
bat’s head tumbled out, torn off the body at the neck. Its furry pointed ears
still wore the large loop earrings, and they clanged together musically before
the head came to rest, propped between them. The eyes were wide open, and told a
tale of terror far greater than any the creature itself could have inspired.

Then the source of that terror emerged from the smoke, eyes hot, body singed
and smoking, and wearing blood like a blanket.

Robin turned away, crushing herself into Jakar’s protective arms, pleading,
“Hold me. Hold me.”

He held her close, speaking quietly and comfortingly. “It’s all right now,
fluff, it’s all right.” His eyes were on Gath, and they were hard with respect.

Gath looked at Cobra, questioning her with his eyes, and she said
breathlessly, “It’s over. There’re no more. I’m sure of it.”

Gath nodded, looked at Robin and saw blood trickling from a cut in her scalp,
and the dark bruised slashes across the backs of her arms. He growled, whipped
around like a wounded animal and struck Cobra across the face.

She went down on her back, and her body arched with pain, her mind went dark.

Brown John leapt between her and Gath, shouting, “No, Gath! Leave her alone!
It’s my fault. I knew what the risks were, and I agreed to let Robin take them.
And she wanted to, because she had to. It was the only way.”

The two men’s eyes locked, and held for a long moment, then Gath looked at
Robin and she nodded, agreeing with the
bukko.

Gath hesitated, then turned back to the
bukko
and whispered harshly,
“Watch yourself, old man. If Robin is hurt again, you will pay as well.”

He glared at Cobra as Brown John helped her up, then turned and strode into
the darkness.

Brown John sighed with relief and turned to Robin. “Are you all right, lass?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I can take care of it.” Brown John nodded, and put
his eyes on Jakar. “Stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight from now on,
and see she washes those signs off.”

Jakar led Robin to the wagon as Brown John turned to Cobra. Her bruised cheek
throbbed, and tears welled in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. She
smiled helplessly at the
bukko,
sighing softly, “Thank you, bukko…
but you do not have to lie for me.”

“It was no trouble,” he said lightly. “Lying is my trade.”

She smiled at that, because she knew he expected it. “I think we should get
away from here as fast as possible. So, if you’ll excuse me, I think I better
attend to myself.”

“Of course,” he said, “and I apologize for Gath.”

“There’s no need. 1
expected his reaction.”

“Then I apologize for myself, because I didn’t.” He
smiled. “Next time I’ll be ready.”

She dipped her head in gratitude, suddenly disturbed by his probing eyes, and
hurried unsteadily toward the wagon to find her rouges and mirror.

GROTTO OF THE BALD VESHTA

A
t dawn Brown John, sitting alone in the driver’s box, turned the lumbering,
squealing wagon off of Hog-Scald Road onto Boot Trail, and raced it through the
thinning trees into the foothills of the Barrier Mountain Range.

They were covered with tall brown grass, and clusters of boulders were
scattered about like the droppings of some constipated god. In the distance rose
the jagged peaks of the bald desert mountains that separated the forest basin
from the endless sand dunes beyond, and the known world from the unknown.

The wagon’s destination was deep within that mysterious world, at the
crossroads of Boot Trail and the Way of Chains where Cobra had told the
bukko
the map was hidden.

Simultaneously trying to hold the reins and eat his morning porridge from a
bowl with one hand, Brown John whipped the horses with the pole whip with the
other, and shouted encouragement at them. He was delighted. His players were
finally taking the stage and, being a performer, he had to let it show even
though no one was watching.

Two hours later, as the wagon rolled through the hot high desert, he was
doing the same thing, but without the bowl and with Cobra sharing the driver’s
box.

She sat in regal repose, her voluptuous body gracefully turned in the seat,
and one leg tucked under her. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her black
hair flagged behind the clean-cut oval of her face as she let the wind cool her.

Brown John’s smiling cheeks were flushed and he was bare-chested, with the
upper portion of his tunic folded down under his belt, and his pudgy belly,
despite his best efforts to restrain it, tending to hang over it.

Robin and Jakar rode inside the wagon, and Gath rode well ahead of it. A
massive cut of meat and bone sweating in the sunshine, his chestnut flesh was
naked except for leather loincloth, sword and dagger belts, glistening brass
armbands and boots. Three times he had circled back through the foothills and
searched their back trail, and each time he had returned to give Brown John the
same report. He had seen no travelers on the road, and no animal among the rocks
or bird in the sky that could have been following them.

Their disguise was complete, and their plot at play.

The
bukko
whipped the horses energetically, backhanded the sweat from
his cheeks and glanced out of the corner of his eye at Cobra.

She now wore a plain sand-colored tunic. It was worn and patched, with short
sleeves and skirt consisting of wide scallops and stringy threads which flapped
about her bare legs and arms. The garment was of soft cotton and belted with a
faded gold sash. Its collar was square, with a deep V cut between her swelling
breasts and laced with leather thongs, as were the openings in the sides of the
skirt, allowing more than pleasing glimpses of her curvaceous beauty as well as
ventilation.

He looked back at the road and smiled to himself. For a former Queen of
Serpents whose nature was undoubtedly still tainted by demon seed, if not
corrupted by it, she looked not only surprisingly human and womanly but
tempting. He rolled his head and shoulders to get the kinks out, thus allowing
himself another peak at her bosom, and watched her breasts tussle and bounce. He
had seen thousands of lovely bosoms, and not casually, but as a professional. He
had examined them with care, measured and dressed and undressed them, and
handled them on stage when the scene called for it. He had seen larger, higher,
firmer breasts, but none so amazing to him. They seemed to have lives of their
own. They continually tried to squeeze past the restraining leather thongs, or
spill over the top of her bodice, and his palms itched to catch them.

Her head turned slowly, and her eyes looked at him, as a corner of her mouth
lifted with a reserved smile. It said she understood his thoughts and did not
mind. This sent a tremor of pleasure through the
bukko
that was tenfold
greater than that which his hands had hoped to hold.

Chuckling to hide his reaction, Brown John said, “You are no normal
adversary, woman. I keep forgetting I should be afraid of you.”

“Good,” she said lightly, “then perhaps we can not only share the same trail
out of necessity, but as friends?”

He laughed. “You are dangerous, aren’t you?”

“You flatter me,” she said, “and
1 thank you. But it will gain you no advantage.” Her smile lifted both corners
of her inviting mouth, saying clearly that she did, however, have an exploitable
weakness if he was interested.

Brown John chuckled and said, “Keep talking.” She laughed with delight, then
in a level tone, said, “Despite what you say, I know you are not afraid of me.
Neither of what I was or what I am. I like that.” The reserved smile returned.
“Men without fear have been few and far between in my life, therefore I am
vulnerable to them.” She grinned. “There, now you do have the advantage.”

“Now you are really dangerous,” he said.

Cobra laughed an easy relaxed laugh and said, “You, bukko, are neither a
normal adversary nor an ordinary man. So, I will leave the choice to you. We can
be adversaries or friends… I will enjoy either one.”

Brown John, liking her reply a good deal more than he thought he should,
said, “Maybe we better talk about the weather.”

She laughed out loud, then sobered and put her gold eyes on his brown,
saying, “Before we do that, I must warn you about this map. Once we reach the
grotto and find it, I think it would be wisest if only I or the girl handles
it.”

His eyes became thoughtful, questioning her, but he saw only genuine concern
in her eyes. “Perhaps you had better tell me about it.”

“I will tell you all I know,” she said candidly, “and I believe it is all
that is known.” She indicated the distant mountains. “At the crossroads of Boot
Trail and the Way of Chains, there is a brothel called the Grotto of the Bald
Veshta. Are you familiar with it?” He nodded. “It was a soldiers’ brothel when I
was there. But that was over twenty years ago.”

“It is still a soldiers’ brothel,” she said, “but long ago it was a sacred
shrine to Black Veshta, who the local tribes call Bald Veshta. That’s when the
map was hidden there.”

“It’s been there all this time?”

“Yes. It’s a small image of Black Veshta sculpted from dark stone and laden
with magic. It’s taboo. That’s why it’s not been touched. Black Veshta has
forbidden any man to so much as put a finger on it, and promised to take cruel
vengeance on any who do.”

“So you think I shouldn’t touch it,” Brown John asked, with one frousy white
eyebrow arching, “so I won’t become contaminated?”

“It would seem to be prudent,” she said with a chuckle, “since you would risk
having your yang shrivel up and fall off if you do.”

He laughed and said, “Blaughh! If I’m not afraid to put my hands on the
jewels of the White Veshta, the Goddess of Light herself, then I am surely not
going to hesitate when it comes to a puny little icon of a false bitch like
Black Veshta.”

“Your mind is set then?”

He nodded his frazzled white head.

“Then I will not argue the point further,” she purred thoughtfully. “But I
would have thought that a man of your profession, sensitivities and desires
would have a greater respect for the deity which reigns over the glamour and passion of women.”

“Oh, I have great respect,” Brown John chuckled, “and admiration. Even
adoration! But not for any goddess. It’s the women I love, every last one of
them. I find them all absolutely fascinating… and each and every one, in
her own way, beautiful.” He chuckled again and looked at her admiringly. “And my
present company, despite her unnatural lineage, is no exception.”

She shook her head with amused cynicism and said, “Bukko, you surely cut your
dreams from bright cloth.”

When the wagon pulled up at the crossroads, the sun was starting down the
backside of the sky. Gath tethered his stallion to the wagon, then he and the
bukko
crossed the open clearing toward the brothel as Cobra, Robin and Jakar
waited with the wagon.

Boot Trail, the Way of Chains and assorted footpaths and trails moved away
from the clearing like crippled spokes of a wheel. The grotto, a series of caves
pockmarking a wedgelike cliff of black rock, formed the hub. A wagon and several
horses were tethered to a railing at the base of the grotto. A rough-hewn ladder
rose to the first cave, where a guard sat with his legs straddling the ledge.
Behind him rose a crude log building fronting the largest cave. Raucous
laughter, the jangle of tambourines and the smell of musk and jasmine mixed with
sweat drifted from it. Above the structure and to the sides, ladders led to
higher caves, the highest being the one Cobra said held the map. There was no
sign of guards near it.

Gath and the
bukko
climbed the entrance ladder, moved inside the log
building and found what they expected to find.

Mercenaries sat at benches drinking wine, fondling their whores and haggling
over the price of both. They were mostly spearmen and slingers, fodder which a
warlord could feed cheaply to a civil war. At one table sat long-haired men in
bits of armor. Recruiting captains. They were doing the laughing, as well as
their share of the drinking, fondling and arguing. The whores were naked except
for a sheen of perfumed oil and scraps of colored beads or sash. Among them was
not one hair to cover head, armpits or groin.

Gath and Brown John sat down at an empty bench and did what everyone else was
doing until everyone else was used to seeing them do it and stopped looking at
them. Then they drifted through the back of the cave and up through the interior
tunnels to the upper caves, giving the appearance that they were shopping among
the girls lolling in the cribs dug out of the rock walls.

Reaching the next to highest cave, Gath sat on a rock and began to exchange
stories with the three old whores relegated to this natural back room, while the
bukko
covertly climbed up the ladder and vanished inside the highest
cave.

It was designed in the manner of all caves, carved and decorated by water and
wind, about seven feet wide, thirty feet deep. A shaft of sunlight, passing
through a hole cut through the rock ceiling, illuminated a black figurine
standing on a small cleft carved out of the back wall.

Brown John smiled a smile that could not have been tamed with a stick, and
cautiously looked back the way he had come. No sight or noise indicated he had
been seen. He moved into the depths of the cave. There were many holes in the
ceiling so that light, regardless of the sun’s course across the sky, would
illuminate the icon at regular intervals and awe superstitious visitors.

Reaching the figurine, he saw it was only slightly taller than his forearm
was long, and covered with dust. The body was trim but voluptuous, and stood
upright, knee-deep in a sandlike cone which spread out in waves to form the
base. The arms were thrown back, and neck and back were arched so that the
pelvis thrust forward, provocatively presenting the triangular temple of flesh
for which the grotto was named. It was bald, as was the oval head.

Chuckling, and with the reckless glint in his eyes dancing, Brown John thrust
a pudgy hand through the cascading sunlight and picked up the statuette. Holding
it to his face, he examined its markings. There were tiny inscriptions in an
ancient sign language, and carefully sculpted strings of beads draped over neck,
breasts and belly. There was no doubt that they indicated trails, just as lines
did on a map.

He laughed out loud, stopped short and quickly crept back to the front of the
cave. Again there was no indication he had been detected. He stepped back into
the concealment of the cave, thumbed the dust off of the figurine’s breasts, and
his smile once more roughed up his face, kicking his mouth wide and punching
holes so deep in his cheeks that they ballooned.

Sounds of tinkling, flirtatious laughter came from within the cave, and he
turned sharply, hiding the icon behind him. The sounds rose, filling the cave,
but there was no one else in it. A wary shiver shot through him, but then he
relaxed, telling himself that the sounds were coming from the cave directly
below, and that in his eagerness he had simply not noticed them before. Then new
sounds joined the laughter, a rising moaning and sighing, and the gasping of
sexual pleasure. The sounds intensified, and he became aroused, began to
perspire.

He held the icon at arm’s length, suddenly afraid of its contamination, but
unwilling to let go of it. The sounds continued to rise, then became vague and
inarticulate, and he became hesitant, averting his head from the figure and
peeking at it with one eye.

The black body was warm in his hand. It felt pliant, then alive, and his
fingers relaxed, allowing the doll to squirm and turn, hiding itself modestly
within his grasp.

He shook his head hard and blinked his eyes, trying to clear his mind and
vision. He drew the icon closer, to see if it had truly come alive, but it hid
within his pudgy fingers. He tried to unfold them, but did not have the strength
or will. His eyelids grew heavy and slowly closed, as if relaxed in sleep.

There was only darkness in his mind, and his thoughts fled back through it to
younger times, names passing by, names with laughing faces. Naso the rubber man,
Dulcia the harpist, Podoo the dwarf, and Leto, Balmara, Connie and Lale. They
were times of feathers and dancing, good times born of endless spaces and the
open road, of yesterdays filled with tomorrows.

Slowly the faces faded, giving way to blistering sunshine which spilled out
of the sky like warm syrup onto a field of tall brown grass. His mind’s eye saw
a small boy peering through the waving tips, a short stout boy of eleven with
brown eyes. He scurried through the grass hiding himself, then stopped, raised
up slightly and saw a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen moving through the
grass some thirty feet away. She was running lazily, her arms outstretched, with
her fingertips brushing the tips of the grass as she streamed past. Her raven-black hair was long and waving behind her in the glory of the golden sunlight,
and her laughter was so light it weighed less than the air. Staying hidden, the
lad followed her through the grass, then along a brook, trying to get a glimpse
of her face, but could not. He ran faster, reaching the village before she did,
and tried to casually intercept her. But he could not find her. Then, as he was
about to give up and go home, he saw her standing in front of a large, brightly
painted wagon with tall yellow wheels. She was talking to an old man and a
dwarf, both of whom wore soiled tunics with large colored patches. He moved
toward the wagon, trying to see her face, and just as it was about to come into
view, she turned away and entered the wagon, closing the door behind her.