The River Wall (12 page)

“I told you about Thymas.”

“Yeah, he’s the son of the Sharith leader, right?”

“Right,” I said, “and wrong. At his father’s insistence, I was—um—installed as Captain of the Sharith before we left Thagorn.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, after a moment. “Got any more surprises?”

I laughed. “Not that I know of,” I said. “But, then, I haven’t read this letter yet.”

“Well, get on with it,” he grumbled.

I unfolded the parchment and read the graceful characters of Tarani’s cursive script.

“Tarani wrote this from Relenor,” I said to Ligor. “She’ll probably be in Thagorn by tonight.”

“I can hardly wait to meet this lady of yours,” Ligor said, then stopped and frowned. “As I recall, Relenor and Thagorn ain’t that close together. How can she make the trip that fast?”

“I
must
have left out a lot,” I said, and told him about Tarani, and Yayshah, and the two remaining cubs. He grew increasingly restless as I talked, and suddenly jumped up and paced the length of the small cubicle.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Believe me, I wasn’t trying to hide anything—”

He waved his hand sharply, interrupting me. “I know that. I just don’t like what I’m feeling right now. Like I bought my way into a friendly
mondea
game and suddenly somebody upped the stakes. Like I thought we were playing for coins, and now I find out my life’s on the line.”

I looked him in the eye. “It always was, Ligor. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear. You can still drop out if you like.”

He snorted and slapped the wall.

“That ain’t what I mean, son. Sure, I knew it was gonna come to a fight. But I thought, you and me and the lady and maybe that Thymas fellow against Ferrathyn. Rough enough prospect just like that. But now I see you”—he spread his hands—“you’re more than just you, son. You got the friendship of the Fa’aldu—I ain’t never heard of that happening before—and the leadership of the Sharith. Your lady’s special, too, what with the sha’um and the Eddarta business, and the mindgift you say is so strong.

“What I’m trying to say is, I thought I was heading for a
fight.
I’m beginning to think of a word this world hasn’t heard for generations, son. I’m beginning to think this fight is a fleabitten
war.
“

He leaned against the wall, pushing at it with his arms. I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder, and he turned around.

“I ain’t blaming you, son. Now I look at it clear, I should have understood it from the beginning. It just didn’t hit me true before now.”

“And now?” I asked, my voice rough. In the few short days I had been in Ligor’s company, I had come to rely on him as a friend. I knew what he was suffering—he was confronting and resisting the same sense of destiny, the feeling of being part of something larger, that had followed me all through this world. I could not let myself persuade him to go on with me. I could not force myself to want him to quit. It was his decision. I waited for it.

“Now?” he echoed, and rubbed his face with one big hand. “Now I’m more scared, and Ferrathyn is more dangerous, and what you’re trying to do is more important. If you still want me with you, considering how dumb I been about this whole thing, I’m on your side till its over.”

I grinned and grabbed his arms. “Best news I’ve had in a long time, Ligor. How about some dinner?”

I would have preferred to allow Keeshah to rest longer, but I was beginning to feel the pressure of time again. The longer Ferrathyn remained in Raithskar unchallenged, the more thoroughly the influence of his mind would alter the attitudes of the people of Raithskar. Our trek through the Zantro Pass was all the harder for our being already weary when we started.

The Zantil and Zantro passes were high mountain crossings. With the dry valley which contained Chizan, they constituted the only link between the eastern and western halves of Gandalara. They formed a nearly straight line between the Korchi Mountains to the north and an unnamed range to the south.

It was my opinion that the Korchis were called “mountains” simply by convention. As far as practicality was concerned, the northern border of the passes might just as easily have been construed to be a southerly extension of the Great Wall. I supposed, because Gandalara existed on both sides of the Korchis but Gandalarans had no knowledge of what lay beyond their Walls, that the impassable areas of the Korchis had to be something besides a Wall, and so were named mountains.

I had Markasset’s memories to tell me that no one in Gandalaran memory had tried to surmount the Walls. The Ricardo part of my personality rebelled at that, and argued that some areas of the southern Wall rose gradually enough to permit some high exploration. The Markasset part saw the steepness of the northern Wall and the dryness of the southern Wall as impassable barriers. As Rikardon, I had Markasset’s memory of the fourteen-year-old boy crossing the Khumbar Pass, and my own experience with the Zantil and Zantro, to confirm the suffering encountered at high altitudes.

All in all
, I decided, as I trudged along beside Ligor and Keeshah in the Zantro, keeping my face covered with a dampened scarf,
it’s no wonder Gandalarans have never tried to climb their Walls.

Though winds were rare elsewhere in Gandalara, they were constant companions in the high crossings around Chizan. Each pass was a narrow, shallow valley with high points at either end. Once across the first high ridge, travelers walked through a continuous storm of sand and small rocks. The wind seemed to suck away what little air there was at that altitude, and air inhaled without some sort of filter made the lungs burn and labor even harder.

We were approaching the second high ridge, and beginning to relax in the knowledge that this part of the trip, at least, was almost over. Keeshah’s mouth and nose were wrapped with a scarf, and he walked with his head down and his eyes closed. Ligor and I did the same. If the high passes had any redeeming feature, it was that there was little chance of getting lost in them. The ground fell and rose so steeply on either side that we could literally feel our way through without risking our eyes more than necessary. It was only when we encountered someone coming from the other direction that we needed our sight.

Keeshah did not waste energy on a growl; it was his mind that alerted me to the approaching party. I opened my eyes to mere slits and peered ahead. In the dusty murk, I could see the outlines of several people, wrapped against the whipping sand just as we were. They were already within ten feet of us; Keeshah’s sense of smell was all but incapacitated by the atmosphere of the pass.

As custom dictated, I edged to the right side of the narrow channel, pushing at Keeshah’s side and pulling at Ligor’s arm. Instead of moving to the other side, as I expected, the shadowy figures veered toward us. This time Keeshah growled; his mind warned: *
Danger.*

I reached for my sword, but I wasn’t fast enough. Two men grabbed me, wrapping length after length of rope around me, immobilizing my arms. Muffled yelling beside me told me Ligor was being treated the same. A scream rang in my ear, and one of the men who held me jerked backward. I steeled myself against the ecstasy of the kill that washed over me from Keeshah’s mind, and twisted frantically against the ropes that bound me.

Another pair of hands whirled me around and pushed me to my knees. A third person came up behind me, grabbed my chin, and pulled my head up. I felt the sharp chill of a knife blade against the skin of my throat.

“Tell him to leave us alone, or you’re a dead man, Rikardon,” said a voice I recognized.

“Worfit,” I said, gasping. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Look at him! I can’t control him now!”

Not even the swirling dust could hide the menace that was Keeshah. He crouched on the northern slope, a dark, still figure. The sinuous motion of his tail created small eddies of dust with and against the wind. A tattered tan scarf hung from his muzzle. Through it, his lips curled back to expose tusks and teeth. A low, skin-stirring sound came from him as he gathered himself.

Worfit moved the knife. I felt a sharp pain, and a warm trickle of blood. Almost immediately, the small wound began to sting from the scouring sand. “Suppose you try real hard.”

Keeshah’s growl became a roar as he shared the pain of the knife wound. I felt his rage, tasted his anticipation, shared his pleasure in letting the man’s fear build.

I reached out to Keeshah with my mind, seeking the blended contact we had achieved often before. I pushed through the animal fury to touch Keeshah’s intelligent consciousness. I was nearly too late; even as I reached him, the tensed muscles along the cat’s haunches were on the brink of launching his mass at Worfit.

But I
did
reach him in time. We were together.

Keeshah understood.

The big cat settled into a wary crouch, his tail still lashing.

Worfit laughed, and snatched away the knife. The two men who held me pulled me to my feet and jerked me around to face Worfit. Behind him, I saw Ligor, held by two others, only his eyes visible through the scarf wrapping his face.

I shook my head from side to side, dislodging my own scarf. I shouted to make myself heard above the whining wind.

“Worfit, you’ve been nothing but trouble for me since the day we met,” I roared at him. “What do you want? What drives you?”

“What drives me?” he shouted back, coming closer. “Lets just say you’re a symbol, Rikardon.” He stressed the name sarcastically. “You’re a symbol of the so-called honest wealth that will flow across my gaming tables but won’t invite me to its dinner table.”

“And you couldn’t get your usual revenge with me, is that it?” I shouted, a small part of me registering the absurdity of trying to hold a conversation in the Zantro Pass. “I never caught the gaming fever, and I paid my debts. And you couldn’t touch me because of Keeshah.”

“Not until I figured out how to use you against him,” Worfit said, and laughed again. “But I have you now, Markasset or Rikardon or whatever fancy name you carry. Your sha’um may kill me eventually, but not until you’re dead. And, my friend,” he said, coming even closer, “your death will not come easily.”

I could see his face clearly now. I looked into his eyes and found the real answer: obsession. Worfit was as obsessed with killing me as Obilin had been with sick desire for Tarani. What he was saying was absolutely true. It was worth his own death to see me die.

“You’re insane,” I said.

Worfit’s face went grim, and he stabbed toward my side, the dagger in his right hand. I brought my knee up sharply against his wrist and sent the dagger flying. In the brief instant of his surprise, I threw my weight away from him, against the man on my right.

*Now, Keeshah
,* I called.

I went down dragging both of my captors with me. Keeshah dragged off one of the men; I got to my feet and aimed a kick at the second man’s head. He dodged, and scrambled, giving me time to shrug free of the ropes and draw Rika. He quavered a moment, then turned and ran eastward into the swirling dust.

Worfit had dived after his dagger and now leaped toward Ligor, with the obvious intent of setting up the same sort of bribe, based on Ligor’s life.

Keeshah got there first, his bulk and his bloody muzzle between the roguelord and Ligor, who was still held by two of Worfit’s men. Everyone became very still for a moment. Then Keeshah turned his head toward one of Worfit’s men.

“No!” one of them shouted. “He’s right, Worfit. You
are
crazy!”

“We can’t spend your gold in the All-Mind,” the other added.

They threw Ligor to the ground, turned, and followed the other rogue.

Worfit slowly, deliberately turned his back on Keeshah.

“I still win,” he shouted. “You couldn’t have done it without that sha’um. I figure that shows me to be the better man.”

“How do you figure that?” I asked, circling down from the slope to face Worfit on the relatively even floor of the pass. “You couldn’t have done it without—what? Five men?”

He made no answer.

“You think I stopped Keeshah because I was afraid for my life?” I yelled. “If you knew him, you’d know better than that. There’s only one kind of logic that could have stopped him. He held back because he knew—

“He knew that I wanted you for myself.

“There are no extra men now,” I said, moving toward him. “Keeshah won’t interfere, no matter what—he has agreed to that.” I drew my dagger, sheathed Rika, then drew the baldric over my head and tossed it toward Ligor. “The odds are even, Worfit. You against me.” I had kept it in check all this time, the anger I felt because of the people who had died as a result of Worfit’s persecution and petty envy. I let it surface now, and I believe Worfit saw it in my face, a look such as a sha’um might wear. “You’re the one who set the stakes, Worfit. Now roll your mondeana in a fair game for a change.”

Worfit grinned, and settled his thick body into a fighting crouch.

“You’re a fool,” he yelled. “It’s still my game.”

I saw what he meant immediately. Markasset had trained in fighting with all weapons, but he had excelled in sword work. Worfit, on the other hand, had learned his skills under life-and-death circumstances, and it was clear that the dagger was his chosen weapon. Only the element of surprise had allowed me to disarm him so easily.

Worfit tossed the dagger between his hands, feinting at me even as he grasped its hilt. His speed, the whirling sand, and the blurring tears stimulated by the sand all made it difficult to keep track of his movements.

None of that mattered. I was ready for the end of it, consumed with a rage that matched the roguelord’s obsession. I
wanted
Worfit’s life, even if it cost me my own.

We circled slowly, feinting and dodging, each gauging the others skills. Suddenly Worfit lunged forward, his right hand drawn back for a killing body thrust, his free hand ready to grab my dagger wrist.