Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (32 page)

As expected, the catamaran had zig-zagged
right through the sluggish line of baffled Malachite cruisers
beyond the mouth of Xanthin Island, leaving them literally in its
wake.

Tacking across the wide loops of current up
Sea Minor, Coluth had handled the boat like a veteran yachtsman,
the "cat" holding together as it beat to windward into the narrows
of Sea Throat.

So far, so good.

Following sailor-lore of how best to approach
Azare, Coluth had put the boat on a long reach in the very center
of Sea Throat, that line taking them, at last, into the pewter
waters of the black band.

Black band?

Not quite. While the Malachite sky was
transformed into an ominous, angry bruise the moment they entered
Azare waters, the "black" band's sky proved to be more taupe than
sable, the lighter colored sky canceling a major fear of John's:
that in black band territory, John would have no magical help at
all in translating Stil-de-grain to English. As it was, the
brooding heavens of Azare "leaked" enough light to see by and to
provide some linguistic aid.

It'd also been fortunate that John and
company had been able to sail for a time in Azare waters before
landfall, this period desirable for adjusting to the suddenly
heavier gravity of that inner band.

With Coluth tacking carefully under Azare's
dim sky, they'd made land at last, tying up to a spike of rock
jutting from the edge of a dismal strip of sand-and-boulder coast,
a wind-blown shore so barren of shape and color it could only be
called desolate. A place where leaden water lapped gray sand. A
place where -- here -- there -- gargoyles of decaying rock thrust
up along the coast like zombies rising from their graves.

Though difficult to see in Azare's sickly
luminescence, a line of low, bare hills could be seen rising behind
the smudgy strand.

And that was all there was to see. (Not even,
as John feared, shuffling lines of albino citizens who'd been
brainwashed to die in defense of Auro's beach.)

No sound but the mournful wailing of the
seaward wind.

Over the objections of Coluth, who'd argued
that John needed protection on his way to fight the dark Mage, John
had ordered the crew and soldiers to stay with the ship. Whar, not
to be outdone in his affection for his Mage, protested that at
least he be allowed to accompany John on his foray into dark-Mage
territory.

Feeling that human aid wouldn't do him much
good against Auro's magic, at the same time wishing to secure his
retreat, John had explained that Coluth and the rest should remain
behind to guard the boat.

Of course, John's decision was final -- to
take only the women (Platinia because he needed her, Zwicia, on the
outside chance she might yet have a vision that would be of help).
The women plus the two-pony cart packed with the cannon on its
iron-wheeled platform, gunpowder, cannonballs, and provisions.

As for locating Auro, John had never seen
that as a problem. Since the dark Mage was generating the "evil"
wind, all John had to do to find the source of this iniquity was
travel to windward. A task made easier when, soon after the ponies
had labored the cart over the line of sandy hills beyond the beach,
John chanced upon a track that ran ruler-straight into Auro's
poisonous breath.

First fusing the cannonballs (Something John
could do ahead of time,) John and the women started out. In the
near dark of Azare. Over a dusty, long-abandoned trail.

Leading the ponies by their guide ropes, the
ponies harnessed to the small, but heavily burdened cart, the
question uppermost in John's mind was, did the dark Mage know of
John's approach? ...... Probably.

Too many messenger birds flew too many places
for the evil Mage not to know John was on the way. (John himself
had been sending periodic messenger birds back to Stil-de-grain,
the large, yellow birds programmed to parrot glowing progress
reports to the people of the capital. One of John's fears was that,
without him there to remind Stil-de-grainers of his power, morale
would slip on the home front. In addition to a ship to take him
home, John needed a country to come home to.)

True, there'd been disappointments, the
first, that the illumination of the Azare sky was too slight to
produce enough magic for either the women or for John to
"think-alight" fire stone torches.

The second, Zwicia's failure to foretell the
immediate future by looking into her Weird-crystal. Not that she
didn't do her best, staring into the violet flickerings of her
large disk at every pause, stroking and muttering. She did give
warnings, though only about Mage lightning and white enemies --
known dangers. She'd also cautioned John to beware of fearsome
animals in the night -- everyone's fixation in this "old wives
tale" world.

Platinia, of course, was ... Platinia.

Near down-light of the first day's journey,
John made camp beside the road, unhitching the ponies to let them
graze on dead grass by the roadside.

Next, John had gotten out the sheet of
waterproof canvas, strapping the tie-down rings of the heavy,
flapping cloth to the topside of the pony cart, stretching the tent
cloth away from the wagon, staking the outer edge of the tarp into
the ground. After he'd set up this lean-to arrangement, the women
had taken food and blankets out of the cart, putting what they
needed for the night under the tent.

John had remembered that, with the aid of the
Mage-crystal of Stil-de-grain, he'd once been able to light torches
-- even in the dark. If he could light a torch after dark, wasn't
it a good bet he could warm fire stones?

It was just that he didn't want to put the
gem around ....

Yes.

In the end, he'd brought the crystal --
though he was still carrying it in a special robe pocket, too
frightened of its mesmerizing effects to put it on. So far, he
hadn't needed its doubtful magic. His solemn prayer, that he never
would!

That first night, Azare as fog-bound --
though not as rainy -- as all bands, the three of them huddled in
the cave-like dark of the wind-assaulted tarpaulin. They ate by
feel: cold cheese and bread, the constant smell of wind-blown dust
making the food tasteless. Drank, in turn, from a cask of
Stil-de-grain beer.

Unable to talk at all to the women after
down-light or to understand their Stil-de-grain, John ate his cold
food quickly, wrapped himself in a blanket, and was soon
asleep.

Following the same pattern for two more days,
they'd continued to trudge dutifully into the turbulence, seeing
nothing in the shadowy terrain around them but wind waved straw --
this region of Azare originally pastureland, John supposed.

As for the people who'd formerly worked the
land, where were they? Had Auro's assaults on other bands denuded
the country of its milk-white citizens?

It had been some time during the afternoon of
the third day that the road had begun to cut through the base of
colorless, rolling, gray-rock hills, their crests indistinct in the
morose darkness of Azare's contusion-of-purple sky.

No sign of danger, though. No living thing to
challenge them. Or ghost of a living thing.

And yet ... somewhere ahead ... lay the
awesome force that drove the wind and fueled dark-Mage lightning --
though how Auro built such dynamism from this "low wattage" sky,
was a mystery.

So far, these were the sum total of John's
thoughts as he and the women left the dismal shore, trudging inland
on the same, straight road they'd found upon topping the sandy
ridge that marked the ending of the coastal plain.

Hour after boring hour, they labored through
the somber terrain, the going slow as they bucked increasing
gusts.

Heavier gravity, and now this savage
wind.

Though John managed to overcome these
difficulties, the women suffered. Platinia because of her size,
every scud of wind threatening to kite her off the road; Zwicia
because she was so unsteady on her flapping feet.

For the first two days, Zwicia and Platinia
had walked beside him, John leading the ponies by their guide
ropes, the ponies dragging the creaking cart. For the last day,
though, the steadily increasing wind had driven the women behind
the cart, the slatted sides and solid back of the wagon serving as
a windbreak. Easier walking, perhaps, but dirtier walking, wind
gusts covering them with dust kicked up by the straining
ponies.

At the front, John battered his way forward,
having, at times, to drag the shelties, the little horses shying at
the wind's force and at its noise.

At least that had been the entire story until
awhile ago when, mercifully, the wind began to die.

Until this very moment when the wind ...
stopped!

"Something's wrong," John repeated to
himself, John shocked at how his voice blared in the new stillness
of this low-light world.

Halted in the middle of the road, John looked
at the sky.

Did it seem brighter?

Perhaps, though the band above them certainly
wasn't the blue it was supposed to have been before the
Mage-enemies of Auro used their power to blacken Azare's sky.

Ahead -- far ahead -- did the sky seem
brighter still? As if a light source was lancing skyward to reflect
from the opaque, purple clouds?

As for the absence of wind-shrill, John had
gotten so used to the dissonance he'd forgotten what "quiet"
was.

Not entirely quiet. For unless it was blood
singing through his veins, John seemed to be picking up a distant
... trilling sound. Somewhere ahead of them.

Beside him, John was aware of Platinia's
presence.

"Any guesses about what happened to the
wind?" John asked. Though lowering his voice, he still seemed to be
shouting in the unaccustomed stillness.

At his question, Platinia looked up at him,
her small face as gray and shadowed as the surrounding,
round-topped hills.

She was not likely to have anything to say.
She never did.

Zwicia had also shuffled to the front, John
realized. "Lxlop," the old woman mumbled to herself, nervously
fingering the gold piping on the front edge of her violet robe.
"Lxlop, hidripa wind."

Whatever "Lxlop" might mean (to say nothing
of hidripa) the stoppage of the tempest was also upsetting Zwicia,
the old woman muttering, then waving her hands like she did when
disconcerted.

Looking ahead, did John see ...?

Straining, John could make out ... trees.

Yes. If you could call barkless trunks topped
with lifeless limbs -- trees.

Squinting, he looked again. No doubt about
it, the road was pointed at a tangle of blighted woods.

How long since the trees ahead had been
alive?

From the look of them, they could have been
dead at the dawning of creation. .................

Was everything in this black band dead? Since
landing on the dingy beach several days behind them, John had seen
nothing but sand, bare hills, gray rocks, dead grass, and sterile
land.

Now, they were coming upon a ghostly
forest.

Whatever the Mage-King had done to others,
he'd brought a terrible vengeance down on Azare.

Which still left the question, why no
wind?

What was apparent, was that John was not
going to get any answers by standing there holding the pony reins.
"We've got to go on," John said, turning to the women, gesturing
broadly to supplement any words failing to get through in this
reduced magic zone. The women nodded.

So they set out in the suspicious calm,
Platinia and Zwicia walking with him again, busying themselves by
brushing dust from their robes, John keeping a lookout to either
side of the road as well as listening. ........ Heard little except
the gentle clop-clop of the ponys' hooves on the soft-earth road
and the rhythmic creaking of the solid wood cart wheels.

The dead woods not that far in front of them,
they soon edged into the sepulchral forest, the border trees to
either side looking ... petrified ... lifeless, their bare branches
interlocking overhead in increasingly thick tangles.

Worsening an old problem.

Light.

Even though the trees of these funereal woods
lacked leaves, their tangled branches above the path began to shut
out what little light there was.

Another few steps ... and the boughs had
strangled the dim light entirely.

If only John had a fire stone torch
........

The situation was the same as before. While
there were torches in the pony cart, the lack of illumination
prevented anyone "thinking" a torch alight. John could fire one up,
he thought. All he had to do was put on his Mage-crystal .....

Precisely what he didn't want to do ...
except in an emergency.

Was this the time to play his trump?

Funny, how one generation's technology was
another, more backward age's, magic. Here, where it was routine
sorcery to "think" a cold-fire torch alight, a cheap cigarette
lighter burned with a miraculously hot flame!

Unable to continue without blundering into
the increasingly invisible woods, John stopped, the ponies coming
to a standstill behind him, blowing, stamping their small
hooves.

Then, silence.

No. Again ... not silence, but that trilling
noise ahead of them, if anything, a little louder. .... As John
concentrated on the sound, louder still. Not only from the front
but in increasing volume and coming from both sides of the dark
forest!

What .......!?

"Platinia," John whispered, the women huddled
close to him, blotches in the blackness, "do you know where the
torches are packed?"

John thought the girl nodded that she
understood. At any rate, she faded into the general gloom of the
cart behind them; returned after a few moments with the two
torches, fire stones fitted into their flaring ends. Taking each
torch in turn, John removed the fire stones, stepping back to the
cart to push the valuable stones through the wagon's slats,
depositing the porous rocks in front of the tied-down cannon.