THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (52 page)

“Mariana, help me!” cried Oro, his hand groping to find hers as the king dragged him down. Frozen to her place, the dancing girl watched stunned as both men fell, a burning heap together, down, down into the clouds, a flaming torch of flesh, to smash upon the marble plaza below.

Mariana spun to avoid the grabbing hands of the Vizier. She ran to another part of the wall, holding the dagger high and drawing back her arm.

“Don’t!” thundered the Vizier. “You can’t! You can’t!”

“I can and I will!” rejoined the shaken girl. And she aimed the scimitar high, just as the Prince had instructed, and hurled Blue Fire with all her ebbing strength and courage.

“You fool!” cried the Vizier, his hands to his face. “You don’t know what you’ve done! It’s the end, the end of us all!”

Mariana was crying, and she laughed through her tears. Now she was prepared for anything, even death. The burden had been lifted from her shoulders forever.

The air became suddenly still; there was no longer even a breeze. Mariana stared out into the pervasive void. Above, the clouds still hung in the black sky as though nothing had happened. The glow of the dagger had vanished, become lost in the oblivion of the Eternal Darkness, and for a moment she wondered if its powers had been too pitiful to battle the poisoned air of Evil.

But then it happened; slowly at first, but frightening and awesome. Thunder rumbled in the distance; lightning cracked. The mists began to swirl. And from somewhere above there came a glow, dim at first but steadily brightening, a blue glow that worked its way along the edges of the sky and slipped thin fingers among the clouds. Then there were crackles of electricity and red sparks snapped through the atmosphere.

White-knuckled, Mariana clutched the wall, holding her breath as the wind roared once more, only this time with the force of a hurricane. The Vizier held out his arms and fell to his knees in sobs. The tower itself began to shake, and when the thunder boomed it seemed the whole world swayed with it.

Across the sky dark colors were ripping; blue fire lashed among shadows. Roar after terrible roar filled her ears until Mariana could no longer stand it. Stones loosened in the walls and tumbled down. The bedrock tower had begun to crack, huge fissures forming among the stones and rippling downward back to the earth.

Crying, Mariana shielded herself and waited for the granite to crumble around her. The Vizier was writhing on the floor, calling out to his gods of the Darkness, his lips dark and trembling. It was as if the earth itself were exploding. Mighty lightning bolts struck again and again, crossed swords in the sky, weapons of anger, furiously charged and pelting the land with terrible retribution.

Rock crumbled everywhere. Mariana threw back her head and stared out into the multicolored sky. The battle was hotly contested. Good against Evil. Faith against damnation. The foul and disgusting civilization of the Druids would surely come to an end. And even should fair Speca herself be tossed beneath the sea, Mariana was sure she had done the right thing.

With a shattering crash of lightning one side of the terrace split before Mariana’s startled eyes and caved in completely. Still lost in his anguish, the Vizier was hardly aware when the ledge gave way and loose stones came crashing over his head. Then the balcony buckled and Mariana saw him tossed into the air, his crimson eyes wide and fearful, his shrieks piercing the night as he was thrown into the raging vortex. Singed by the ravishes of blue fire and the devilish scarlet flame he himself had spawned, he tumbled ever downward to a fiendish grave.

As the tumult of a sky gone mad surrounded her with its fury, Mariana folded her shivering arms and stood waiting. Her own demise would be swift in coming, and with neither tears nor sorrow she held her pitiful meter of ground while the Devil’s Tower crumbled to dust about her.

27

The celebration of the Seeding had long since been under way throughout Speca. Set apart from the merrymaking taskmasters, Ramagar and the other shackled slaves sat miserable and cold in their smelly hovels. Thorhall had successfully cut through his own bonds and had nearly succeeded in freeing the thief.

Ramagar winced with pain, his bruised ankle throbbing and swelling, as the wily Aranian finally sawed through the iron links. The metal snapped suddenly and the thief hurriedly pulled the chain off. He rubbed at his ankle and drew a long sigh of relief. In the darkness of the shack and amid the loud carryings-on of the taskmasters and their priestess whores, no one was yet aware of the strange bursts of light brightening the sky.

“Shh …” said Thorhall, a finger to his lips.

Ramagar’s eyes slitted like a panther’s. “What is it? Are there guards about?”

The Aranian shook his head; he slinked to the boarded wall and peered through a crack. There were distant rolls of thunder, he noted, a not uncommon occurrence in these climes, yet there was also a strange accompanying glow from the direction of the citadel itself.

“What do you make of that?” said Thorhall, moving aside and beckoning for the thief to have a look. Ramagar peeked through the opening and shook his head in wonder. “The sky is sparking … Look at that! It’s … It’s … crackling like timber!”

They exchanged long, fretful glances. “Could this be part of the celebration?” asked the thief.

“I’ve never seen this sort of thing before,” Thorhall admitted, as puzzled as the thief.

Suddenly they heard a bugle blast, a loud shrill wail of horns blaring in the Darkness. “It’s the Call to Arms!” cried the startled Aranian. “Coming from the garrison, no doubt, and signaling all soldiers back to duty!”

The thunder grew closer, the lightning more terrible. Outside, several of the overseers were clanging bells and hooting through whistles. “Quick! We won’t have much time now,” said Ramagar. And he pulled the sharpened stone away from Thorhall and began to free the haj. The old man grunted, then smiled with satisfaction as his bonds broke.

A burly sentry stepped inside, weapon in hand. Ramagar sprang from the shadows and knocked him down. With one move he broke the soldier’s neck, scooped up his sword, and tossed it into the waiting hands of the haj. While Burlu slipped to the entrance to watch the ensuing commotion, Ramagar worked feverishly to free Argyle and young Homer.

The haj inched outside, crawling on his belly. Across the open field in front, frightened whores, half naked, came scampering from the Druid barracks. And behind them, shirtless and sweaty, came the taskmasters and other noncommissioned officers, caught literally with their pants down at the moment of their empire’s most dire emergency.

Black stallions came galloping out of the Darkness, crimson-eyed messengers restraining their steeds from bolting while they gave the news. But by this time there was little to tell that could not be seen. The sky was raging in hues of blue, and the ground itself rumbled and shook. A shattering hurricane wind raged over the grim and barren landscape.

Ramagar reached the unlocked door and flung it wide. He shielded his eyes from flying dust and stared at the incredible sight. In the sky, thick black clouds were bursting, tingling with ripples of strange colorful brightness, and spinning about dizzily while the glow of deep blue spread rapidly from one end of the horizon to the other. It was a blue that could not be mistaken.

“Blue Fire!” Ramagar cried in jubilation. He spun and looked to his equally stunned companions. “The Prince … Mariana … They’re alive! They’ve reached the Devil’s Tower and thrown the dagger!”

“There is no other explanation,” stammered Argyle in agreement.

Bursting with the new realization that his beloved was not lost, the thief of Kalimar subdued a racing heart and watched the Druid soldiers scrambling through the camp to answer the Call to Arms amid the raging havoc.

“Now it’s our turn to play a role,” he grunted. “Druid magic may well be at an end, but this fiendish army still remains intact.”

“Aye,” said Thorhall grimly. “Every one of these devils will be mustered and rampaging over the land within hours. They’ll be bent on destruction, you can be sure. A slaughter against the helpless Specians such as the world has never seen …”

“And their Dragon Ships will ply the coasts in vengeance,” added Argyle knowingly. “They must be stopped.”

Ramagar gritted his teeth. “Then what are we waiting for, my friends? We came here to fight, didn’t we? Let’s put an end to their plans before they begin!”

And with that, the thief bolted from the hovel daringly while the wind roared against him.

A single soldier came running in his direction, weapon drawn. Ramagar drew back his arm and slammed his fist into the Druid’s face before the soldier could duck. Snatching up the fallen sword, he raced into the fray.

War cries upon their lips, both Thorhall and Argyle dashed across the compound. Those few unfortunate enough to get in their way were quickly dispatched, and the Aranians made all haste to reach the carefully protected mine—a mine whose bowels of sulphur would create a fire that would devastate the Black Forest itself.

Druids rushed to block the charge. Mighty Argyle swiveled in his place, a curved broadsword held tightly with both hands. The blade whizzed above his head, coming down with terrible speed and power and smashing heads at every side. Druids staggered at his feet, tumbling atop one another. They came at him from the left and from the right; Thorhall covered at his back, and young Homer slashed a dagger wildly to keep other pressing soldiers at bay.

The haj, meanwhile, had made his way to the shed where weapons were stored. On his heels Ramagar arrived and made short shrift of the single soldier on guard. The haj sought out their own weapons, making special note to find Argyle’s ax. Then, arms burdened with weapons, the two men rushed back outside to aid their besieged friends.

“Here, catch this!” cried the haj, tossing the huge ax in Argyle’s direction. The Aranian’s eyes glinted in the dark, a glad smile spreading over his shadowed face. And with his ax firmly in hand, he marked out a new and more ferocious circle of death, sending limbs and appendages flying as a dozen Druids fell in bloodied heaps.

Horsemen were thundering into the camp, fresh troops from the Black Forest garrison. Riding insanely into the wind, they crouched low, swinging their steel swords, tearing into the ranks of helpless, dazed Specians.

Ramagar leaped from Thorhall’s side and brought down the first of the line with a tremendous blow of his sword. The black stallion reared in panic as its rider crumpled from the saddle. And all at once the thief mounted. Spurring the animal on, he rode directly among the cavalry, hacking and slashing, creating a bold diversion so that the shackled Specians could run.

“The vats!” he cried aloud. “Spill the vats!”

The haj spun and stared at the huge pots of boiling minerals set against the sides of the mine’s entrance. Bracing his shoulder, he strained to overturn the first, veins popping from his throat in the effort. Argyle and Thorhall were soon at his side. “Heave!” shouted the seafaring Aranian. “Heave!”

The thick, hot vessel gave; the adventurers scurried to the side. As the vat fell over, great billows of molten liquid spilled with the roar of the tide, splashing over the flat terrain and burning the earth with white-hot heat.

Horses were screaming in pain from the liquid, staggering and falling, rendering their riders helpless to go on with their charge. Ramagar leaped from his own agonized steed onto the sloped roof of a hovel. Arrows and spears came flying at him, a host of archers having taken aim from their strong positions beside the barracks. From roof to roof the courageous thief clambered, dodging and spinning while feathered shafts whistled inches from his head.

Argyle and Thorhall were making for cover behind the high piles of sulphur sacks while brave Homer and the haj desperately tried to clear a path for the anguished slaves who were running helter-skelter in an effort to get away. Soaring arrows cut a third of them down, and forced the rest to cower among the white-hot flames of the burning liquid.

Ramagar spun at the sound of a hoarse, cruel voice. Crouching, he peered beyond the flames; then, inching to the edge of the sloped roof he found himself staring at the taskmaster himself, bullwhip in his hand. He was barking orders to frantic soldiers while lashing at a handful of frightened, cornered slaves. Taking great pleasure in his sadistic game, he laughed with bounding glee as the slaves begged and moaned and the whip pushed them back directly into the fires.

The bellicose fat man had not yet caught sight of the fleeting silhouette above. Shrouded by billows of thick, fuming smoke that danced in the wind, Ramagar grasped his small dagger firmly and slid down.

“Taskmaster!” he called, landing evenly on his feet.

The overseer turned in trepidation; he faced the daring foreigner before him dumbly, shaken by this new turn of events. But slowly his fear vanished and a broad grin crossed his face. His potbelly quivered with his mirth and he lashed the bullwhip at Ramagar’s feet. Hours of pleasure could be found in torturing this particular prisoner.

The Vizier himself had of course commanded that none of these strangers be molested in mind or body—yet the wizard was not here now, and the taskmaster could only chortle at the prospect of at last having his own way. He would rip the flesh from the arrogant thief, layer by layer, watching him squirm, until his screams begged for death.

Thunder rumbled and the ground shook. Ramagar paced while the sweaty overseer drew back the whip. Lightning flared and struck nearby; the cries of panicked horses rose above the din. The overseer lunged, Ramagar ducked. Then with the awful winds at his back, the thief threw his body into the air, striking feet first and bowling the fat man over. Together they struggled in hand-to-hand combat, the thief rolling on the ground while the sadist’s hand tried to close around his throat.

The sky was in a tumult crackling and thundering. A deluge of rain now was turning the caked soil into mud. Ramagar slammed an elbow into the taskmaster’s jaw. The man was stunned. Ramagar raised his dagger and plunged it into soft flesh. The taskmaster groaned, hand to his belly. A thin trickle of blood stained his muddied tunic; he staggered to his feet and staggered backward and wobbled, fingers crimson with his blood.