Brown John stood at the corner of the stage waiting. His eyes darted around until he saw it. At the feathered edge of the yellow smoke, probably no more than two inches under the earthen stage, something was wriggling towards the ramp. Brown John jumped off the stage into the shadows.
The slight bulge of earth reached the edge of the stage, and the head of a small Skink snake emerged, looked around, then slithered down to the ramp. For a moment torchlight revealed its shovel-shaped head, enamel-like scales, and muscular tail. Then it vanished into the shadowy ramp toward the access tunnel. Out of the darkness a forked stick descended over its neck and pinned it to the ground. The Skink’s shovel-like head dug into the ground. Half of its body was under the earth when a hand grabbed the tail, pulled it out of the earth and deposited it in a leather pouch. The hand tied the pouch securely with a thong, then picked up its stick, and the owner, Brown John, returned to the stage.
The Snake Finders were still floundering in the dissipating smoke, scratching the ground and each other with their sticks. When the smoke was gone, they saw no sign of Cobra. No wet stain. No shed skin. They grunted and cursed appropriately, then turned to the chained prisoner, leering. They peered around, saw no sign of guards, and, taking courage, advanced excitedly on the helpless Death Dealer. They circled him in stumbling confusion, then timidly cursed him, and spit on his legs. Then a bold one stepped in close and poked him with his stick.
No response came. But as more sticks flayed him, the helmet lifted and the attackers jumped back. The shadowed eyes were on a small dirty-faced boy standing empty-handed directly in front of him.
Gath rose within his chains. His eyes cleared, and he turned on the fanatics. Obviously shamed by the small boy’s courage, they were advancing again. Suddenly the Death Dealer thrashed against his chains. The fanatics, trampling and tripping over each other, fled the stage.
The Death Dealer turned back to the boy, the red glow died, and a voice, low and far away, demanded, “Come closer.”
The small figure marched boldly forward wiping off a damp smudge on its face. The massive pawlike hand of the chained arm opened, and his voice whispered, “Robin.”
She placed her small hand in his, and the strong bloody fingers wrapped around it, held it as she looked searchingly into the eye slits for the man she knew.
“I won’t leave you,” she moaned, “never again.”
He straightened, pulling his head erect, and let go of her hand. “The army? Where is the army?”
Hearing the weakness in his voice, she trembled. “It… it’s camped to the north, outside the city.”
“Bring it,” he gasped. “Tomorrow, at the third hour. I will give it this city.”
Her eyes widened with the shock of comprehension. “But you’re chained!”
“I will be all right now. Hurry!”
She nodded stepping backward, feathery eyes welling with tears. Then she turned and ran off the stage into the shadows.
Brown John started after her, but backed off the stage at the sight of the Temple Guards trotting up the opposite ramp with whips cracking.
The rabble fled up the tiers of the seating area, and Brown John joined them. When he reached his seat, only Dirken was waiting for him. The old man dropped beside him exhausted, but his voice was elated. “Did you see her? She was superb. And she thought she would not know her part!” He laughed.
“I saw her,” Dirken answered. “Gath told her to go get the army, and Bone followed her.”
Brown John frowned thoughtfully, then his cheeks cracked a smile. “My, my, and she takes a cue as well!”
Dirken shot a tired but approving smile at his father. “What happened to the snake bitch?”
Brown John’s eyes twisted, and he patted his pouch possessively.
Sixty-five
The Barbarian Army marched south across the moonlit desert in scattered pieces, each tribe following a separate trail, like the tentacles of some great sea monster reaching out of a dark body hidden in the inky depths of the ocean.
When a tribe, moving through a depression or passing behind a ridge, was swallowed by the enveloping darkness, the other tribes would falter and whispers heavy with rumors would spread through the ranks. Yet no tribe turned back. And each time the vanished tribe reappeared, the entire army would surge forward with new energy.
Occasionally one tribe would take the lead dramatically. They would parade ahead into a spill of moonlight so their armor would glitter, quicken their pace, and spur the other tribes to jealously pick up theirs. Inevitably all the tribes would surge forward until the army was again in line.
In this erratic but effective manner, the Barbarian Army, now nearly eight thousand strong, traveled through the night.
When the cool grey glow of dawn began to rise above the eastern horizon, the army saw remnants of the retreating Kitzakk’s regiments discarded in the desert: broken wagons, spears, pieces of heavy armor, and dead ponies, their lips crusted with caked foam.
As the grey light grew brighter, the mists floating above the flat landscape lifted to reveal the large, brown city of Bahaara lying directly south. A massive eruption of blunt rock articulated with a thousand windows, doors, streets, towers and tunnels, as if hand carved with spoons by gods.
The Barbarian Army, intimidated by its first sight of a great, civilized city, faltered. But the colorfully patched Grillards at the center of the march, bravely pressed forward, and the Dowats in their persimmon tunics and golden brown leather belts followed. The Kavens, in their triple-belted umber robes, came alongside, and the others moved up until there was again a single front.
They were two to three hours’ march from the city.
The cool glow of light at the eastern horizon gradually ignited with intense white, announcing the arrival of the great orb that ruled all deserts. At the first hour, the tip of the golden fire appeared, and spears of white-gold light slashed across the desert. They flew past rock, tumbleweed and thornbush, climbed the city’s walls, and splashed among its tangled buildings turning Bahaara into a city of gold. Magnificent. Brutal. As if the desert were an empty void for no other reason than to focus everything that was living, vital and exotic into one stone structure. The muscle of the desert.
The soft murmurs of morning prayers rose up out of Bahaara’s shadowed causeways and streets, and lifted above the thousand rooftops. They drifted across the sand to the ears of the advancing Barbarians. But they kept their pace, wiry, browned men and women glittering with metal and pride. Then drum beats and chanting pounded out of the walled citadel, and floated across the desert. Mighty cheers followed, rising to a roar. Bahaara was welcoming the strangers, in the manner the lion king welcomes its meat.
The Barbarian Army came to a clattering, stumbling stop, and stared in chilling wonder as the sunlight melted over this intimidating citadel of mysteries. A ripple ran through the front ranks of the army, and arms pointed up ahead.
Two tiny figures, racing alongside their long shadows, were moving toward the army.
Sixty-six
The cheering, laughing crowd was drunk with wine, beer and expectation. They swayed, pushed, fell down and drank in the cool morning shade of the Theater of Death. The arena was packed. Bodies were still spilling through the tunnels fed by the crowd outside. They all waited for the morning sun to descend the wall behind the stage. At the third hour it would fill the stage and the entertainment would begin, blood would flow.