THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (46 page)

“And how will we find these secret passages?” huffed Oro in his sourest voice.

The Prince had a ready answer for that as well. “Each entrance is marked with ancient runes,” he told them. “Specian runes from my forefathers’ time. Remember, the tower had been begun long before Druid domination. And all we have to do is be able to recognize them.”

Then without waiting for the hunchback to argue the point, Mariana and the Prince started the long walk. By midday, they were well away from the Valley of Morose, and Mariana paused to look back at the craggy heights where Ramagar would still be searching for her. Now and again she heard the shrill cry of a Death-Stalker plying the valley’s skies, and she shuddered. The carrion would be carefully watching. She could only hope that the Prince would find one of these hidden passages before the birds of prey spotted them.

Across a barren plain of empty fields they walked, stepping cautiously across the pebbly trail. The air felt thicker, clammier; it became difficult to breathe. The magic of the Seeds of Destruction was already encumbering them, it seemed, slowing them down and beginning to bring a haze of lethargy to play around the edges of their minds. Only the greatest will and effort on all their parts would keep the deadly poison at bay for at least a while.

Oro was the first to show signs of his sapping strength; the hunchback’s breathing became labored, and his moans steadily increased the closer to the source they came. Mariana and the Prince fixed all their thoughts on a single goal: reaching the Devil’s Tower—and with deep concentration they fended off the poison’s potency almost completely. But even they knew the dangerous game they played, for sooner or later they, too, would succumb, as all trespassers onto this bleak and sad land must.

The mountain wind was blowing strong again; frightful wails and cries whistled through the deadened trees and over the plain. And the hope of finding the tunnel was all that kept them going.

23

Ramagar stared through a slit in the stone wall of the bleak barrack. He could see a handful of dark Druid stallions thundering along the Black Forest road and scattering clouds of dust as they reached the wired perimeter of the sulphur mine.

From the corner of his eye he could see the grim shacks of the slaves and hear the sound of picks against rock as the night crew labored in the pit. Although confined to this cell, he had learned much of this place in the past hours. The frequency of patrols told him that a Druid garrison or fortress was close; the sickening powder smell in the air told him that sulphur was the product being mined. And the telltale pale yellow traces to be seen everywhere only solidified his belief.

Undaunted by the threatening gestures of his guard, the same taskmaster who had so cruelly beaten the slaves, he sat in silence and returned his gaze to the bare plank floor to await the interrogation.

At his side sat the haj, also with the same stiffened resolve not to tell their captors a word. The two men exchanged nary a glance as they contemplated their fate, even when, for reasons unknown, their companions were dragged out and taken to cells of their own.

The gruesome Druid before them grew restless; bullwhip behind his back, he paced before them, slitted eyes darting from one prisoner to the other.

The stallions’ hoofbeats became louder; Ramagar listened carefully as the horses came to an abrupt halt outside. There was the sound of heavy boots drawing near, and the taskmaster smiled a thin and disturbing smile. Suddenly the door was flung open wide and two dark figures entered. One, by the look and color of his uniform, was a soldier of some rank. But from his gait and his subservience to his companion, Ramagar dismissed him as no one of great importance, certainly no more than a garrison commander at best, here to escort the other visitor. But looking at this second man, Ramagar began to feel ripples of goose bumps crawl up along his neck.

He seemed a strange sort, this new arrival: a gaunt man, hooded, wearing a deep violet toga and a cloak of purple that swept behind.

At length, the man pushed back his hood, exposing a creased face almost yellow in color. He was clean-shaven, with a pointed chin and a long hawk-shaped beak of a nose that reminded the thief all too much of a carrion. His eyes were set wide apart beneath thin, joining brows, deeply recessed so that they caused shadows to form above his cheekbones. The visitor studied both prisoners briefly, and Ramagar saw that the pupils of his eyes were mere diluted pinpricks within a sea of white, crimson pupils like those he had seen on the Dragon Ships. There was high intelligence in those orbs, and cunning. But more than that, there was unmistakable evil—and the thief hid a shudder.

Bejeweled with onyx and ivory rings on every finger, the visitor played with a small silver pendant around his neck; then he imperiously flung his cloak over his shoulder and put his hands to his hips. Everything about him connoted authority and power. And from the uneasy looks on the soldiers’ faces, Ramagar knew this authority to be no empty boast. This man commanded respect, demanded respect, the kind that could only be afforded a king or a wizard.

Without looking at the taskmaster, the wizard said, “Where were they found?”

“Beyond the wire, my lord. They were spying. We thought perhaps they were the ones you were seeking—”

The wizard cut him off curtly, a thin smile of satisfaction parting his cruel lips. Looking at Ramagar, he said, “Who are you? Where have you come from?” He twirled a small emerald ring on his index finger while waiting for a reply. There was none.

“Better for you if you answer,” said the taskmaster, flexing the bullwhip before their eyes.

“We have nothing to say,” whispered the haj.

“Tell me your name!” demanded the wizard. He tapped the toe of his fine leather boot and hunched his shoulders with tightly balled fists at his hips.

When there was still no answer, the taskmaster lashed the whip, stinging Burlu’s feet. The haj moved not a muscle.

“Give these two to me, my lord,” the taskmaster growled. “I know how to deal with them. I’ll make them squirm…”

The wizard narrowed his eyes and glared at the thief. “That won’t be necessary,” he said with confidence. “This matter will be handled by me—personally.”

The taskmaster’s eyes widened and Ramagar could see fear behind them. “As you say, my lord,” be stammered.

The wizard snapped his fingers, and both the taskmaster and the accompanying soldier withdrew from the hot cell, leaving the visitor alone to carry on the interrogation. After the door had shut behind them, the wizard smiled again. “We know you came here in a ship,” he said. “A ship that sailed from Aran…”

He knows! thought Ramagar. This devil knows about the
Vulture!

As if reading the thief’s thoughts, the wizard smiled broadly and pressed his face close to Ramagar’s. “Yes,” he hissed. “We know many things about you, and about your companions as well.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Ramagar.

The wizard curled his lip. “We know a ship reached our shores—and we know why you have come. Our carrion spied you and your pitiful companions days ago.”

The thief sneered. “If you know all this, what need have you to ask us questions? Surely your magic has ways of learning everything.”

The insidious smile vanished; the wizard stepped back as if appraising the prisoner anew. For him such disregard for his authority was unprecedented; the prisoner showed both courage and character in his reply and the wizard’s curiosity was fueled.

“Do you know who I am?” said the wizard.

Ramagar shook his head. “A sorcerer, no doubt,” came the reply.

A set of large white teeth glinted in the dim light. “I have been called that, yes. I am the Grand Vizier. And word of your capture hastened me from the citadel to greet you.”

Ramagar shuddered with the realization that he was in the presence of the very man who ruled this vast realm of perpetual darkness. That he had journeyed all the way from the Druid city assured the thief that his capture was considered important.

“Do you still refuse to answer my questions?” the wizard said.

Ramagar looked at him blankly, then lowered his gaze to the floor.

The Vizier shrugged, “A small matter, my friend. There are ways to make you speak.”

The haj shot him an angry glance. “Torture us if you like! We’ll not say anything!”

The wizard slanted his dark brows; he nodded slowly, gravely. “There are many kinds of pain,” he said. “Some far worse than others. I could have you both racked, have your bones broken one by one, have your fingernails torn out bit by bit. But such methods,” here he smiled again, “lack finesse. My own methods are far subtler—as you shall learn.” And with that, he reached inside his toga and withdrew a small vial. The vial fit easily into the palm of his hand, and the wizard pulled off the cap. A thin green vapor slowly spread into the air, twisting and dancing above their heads.

Suddenly Ramagar was dizzy; he knew he was losing consciousness and he struggled with all his might to regain it. The face of the wizard grinned malevolently through the misty haze, and Ramagar fought to loose the bonds around his hands.

The haj slumped over and passed out. Ramagar was only vaguely aware now of what was happening. The wizard was leaning over him, forcing open his eyes. Ramagar tried to speak, but only low gurgles emerged from his throat. He knew he was powerless to move or to say anything; he could no longer think straight, his mind had been fogged by the vapor, and he realized he was completely at the wizard’s mercy.

The wizard deftly recapped his vial and knelt beside the unconscious prisoners. He asked his questions quickly, in a soft and lulling voice. Then he smiled with satisfaction as, against their will, the prisoners replied. When he had done, and the air had all but cleared, he stood and clapped his hands, calling the soldiers back inside.

“They will no longer be a problem,” he told the taskmaster.

The sadist grinned. “Shall I have them tortured?”

The Vizier shook his head. “They are both strong. Send them down into the mine when they awake. We have need of such men to labor for us.” And then he strode from the room, lifting his hood and crossing the shadows to reach his horse. None who saw him were aware of the knitted brow of worry; none had read the deep concern within his strange eyes. The sorcerer had learned much about these foreigners, all that there was to know. And it was with fear that he heard the thief speak of Blue Fire—the one magic that could threaten the Druid empire, the one magic that he and his king had feared above all else.

Those in possession of the blade must be found, must be caught and stopped at once—before they exerted the power within their grasp.

24

Ducking from view behind a twisted stump, Mariana peered up breathlessly at the sky and bit her lip as a grim Death-Stalker came gliding downward, sweeping in low above their heads before it zoomed back toward the clouds. The huge bird danced in a figure-eight pattern, made another pass over the rocky plain, and then was gone.

The Prince stood and dusted off his tunic, watching the diminishing speck until it disappeared.

“Do you think we were seen?” panted Mariana. It had been the fourth time this morning they had been forced to run for cover; carrion had been making constant forays and the intervals between appearances were becoming ever shorter.

“I think we saw him first,” the Prince replied. “The bird wouldn’t have been so quick to run off if we’d been spotted.”

Mariana shivered. “I don’t like it. Something must be wrong. It’s almost as if these carrions know just who we are—and where to look.” She clasped her arms and warily looked back to the sky. “And why that second pass? They’ve never come over twice before …”

“Of course they’re looking for us, you fools!” wheezed a highly agitated Oro. “Don’t you think the Druids know all about us by now?”

Mariana ignored the remark and forced herself up from her hiding place. As the hunchback continued to rant she contemplated the gloomy trail ahead. By this time, the Devil’s Tower had become more than a distant haze on the horizon. Its bulk had taken sharper form, and Mariana realized now that its size was so massive, so awesome, that it literally blocked out the tall mountains stretching behind it, dwarfing both peaks and cliffs. And beyond the tower, she could also see the first walls of the citadel itself—the very heart of Druid power and authority—looming in the melancholy bleakness.

Mariana shook her head. With so much distance yet to travel, and so little time in which to do it, their task seemed more impossible than ever. “How much time do we have left?” she asked the Prince.

“Less than a day and a half. We’ll have to reach the tunnels soon—if we’re to reach them at all.”

Oro laughed a malevolent little laugh. “Still dreaming, eh? Still thinking you can take on the might of an empire—and crush it by yourself.”

They pretended not to hear and fending off fatigue, traveled onward, even deeper across the plain. Where the constantly winding trail was leading they did not know, not even if it would finally take them to the hidden underground passages that Specian engineers had designed so many centuries ago.

All at once the flatness of the plain gave way to thickening copses of trees, which the travelers followed in an eerie half-light of day under an almost closed roof of branches. And finally these trees themselves gave way, bringing them again into the open, only this time beside a poorly paved road, whose loose gravel near the center gave testimony to the frequent passage of Druid stallions. Now and again Death-Stalkers were clearly seen roaming the faraway skies in search of intruders, although they seemed to stay well away from the road and the three lonely travelers upon it.

With the wind picking up and a light drizzle descending, the Prince looked around miserably, sensing the closeness of their destination, yet feeling the conclusion of their mission as distant as ever. Mind swirling with the effects of the Seeds, he pushed aside all thoughts of failure and forced them all on, passing by vast fields once abundant with produce and now barren and wasted.