Jason Cosmo Page 4

  “The Champion learned the secret of Asmodraxas’s power and used it to banish him from the universe, locked in a prison he can never escape. Only then could the Great Rebellion succeed.”

  “What was the secret?”

  “The Superwand, a magical talisman created at the Dawn of Time by a powerful race of fluffy pink rabbits older even than The Gods. Asmodraxas stole it from the rabbits and used it to further his schemes of universal conquest. The Mighty Champion stole it from Asmodraxas and hid it so that it could never be found. But suppose the Society rediscovers it. They could free Asmodraxas, who would then try to reclaim his former position.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “The Society wants to restore the Dark Empire, but none of the current Demon Lords can bring that about. Asmodraxas can. He is the one Lord they would serve and worship. If they can free him, they will.”

  “How would they find this Superwand if it’s hidden so well?” I said. Mercury gazed at me silently, thoughtfully. “Wait. You don’t think that I—that my aura—that I’ve got the secret?”

  “That’s exactly what I think. It makes perfect sense. For some unknown reason the secret shows up in your aura, the Society gets wind of it, and the hunt is on.”

  We said no more on the subject, retreating into our individual thoughts. As we rode down the hill, the last of the wagons rolled into the city. A few minutes later, the main gates swung shut and the handful of guards visible on the wall seemed to collapse like puppets whose strings had been cut. Though I didn’t know much about military matters, I was sure that wasn’t normal procedure.

  It was the custom in many walled towns to close the gates at sundown, but that was still hours away. Darnk was neither a prime target of invasion—two nations once fought a bitter war to avoid having to take possession of it—nor a major center of bandit activity, and this degree of security was a bit much.

  We reined in our horses and studied the twin gates. Each was fifteen feet high and plated with iron. The twenty foot wall itself was built of light gray stone blocks and formed a square set against the banks of the Longwash River. It was surmounted by battlements and sported a squat watchtower at each corner. We heard no activity within. There was, in fact, no sound but the snuffling of our horses, as if we had come by mistake to a city of the dead.

  “Maybe it’s time for their afternoon nap,” I suggested.

  “Maybe we’d better keep riding,” said Merc. He turned his horse and started south.

  “Wait! Shouldn’t we investigate?”

  “Why?” said Merc, without turning around. “We have problems of our own. No need to meddle in someone else’s. Haste is now essential.”

  “People might be in danger. We ought to at least alert the proper authorities.”

  “This is the sub-capital of the kingdom. I’m sure the proper authorities are well aware of whatever is happening in there.”

  “We should get word to the king,” I protested.

  Merc stopped and turned his horse. “Cosmo, Ordure is four days travel to the east. That’s back toward the Black Bolts and the Sanitary Police, whom we would like to avoid. By the time we reach the royal court, assuming we do and assuming Fecal the Fourth doesn’t throw you in his dungeon and collect the bounty, the situation here will have surely run its course. So what’s the point of getting involved?”

  “It’s the right thing to do. The old man told me to act like a hero. I think a hero would investigate.”

  “They made you a hero to help you survive, not so you could go looking for trouble. We have no obligations to the people of Offal.”

  “You seem to have no obligations to anyone beyond yourself!”

  “You have captured the essence of my philosophy perfectly. Both our interests are best served by reaching Raelna as quickly as possible. I’m sure you’ll have many opportunities to play hero before we get there.”

  “I’m not playing at anything. Something is wrong in there and I’m concerned. That’s all.”

  “Ah, do you have friends or relatives in Offal?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is your problem?”

  “My problem is I’m not going one mile further until we find out what is happening in this city!” I was surprised at my own forcefulness, but I knew I was right.

  “Be serious.”

  “I am.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. It was like looking a big bug in the face since I couldn’t see his eyes through the sunshades. For all I knew he was changing his mind about helping me and was about to disintegrate me instead. But I held my ground. If fellow Darnkites were in trouble I at least had to find out what the problem was. Still, my heart pounded.

  Merc finally sighed in exasperation and rode back toward me. “Okay, we’ll go in and take a quick look. I don’t think any good will come of this, but we can’t sit here and debate all day.”

  “Great. How do we get in?”

  Merc dismounted and pulled a grappling hook and a coil of rope from beneath his cloak. He swung the hook and threw it at the wall, where it caught on the parapet and held. “After you.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “From beneath my cloak.”

  “I saw that, but you didn’t have it before. There’s no room.”

  “This is a magic cloak. Very roomy. I have a tent in there too.”

  “Oh. By the way, wasn’t your whole outfit just solid black? It’s light gray now.” It was, in fact, the same shade of gray as the city wall.

  Merc shrugged. “Must be a trick of the light.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look, my clothing is magic too. It’s from Raelna, which has a thriving magical textile industry. My outfit can be any color or fashion I desire, mends itself, and always stays clean.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Do you want to talk about clothes or climb the wall?”

  I dismounted, tested the rope, and began to climb. It only took me a few seconds to reach the top, where I found the fallen bodies of four city guards. There were no signs of violence upon them. Merc joined me on the wall and knelt to examine one of the soldiers. He peeled his eyelids open, felt for a pulse, and bent his ear close to the man’s mouth to listen for breathing.

  “Is he alive?” I asked.

  Merc nodded. “It’s dormadose. A magical gas which induces a restful sleep of a day’s duration.”

  “I didn’t see any gas.”

  “It’s invisible, but smells faintly of raspberry. I don’t like this at all. It reminds me of—” He lapsed into deep thought.

  I sniffed the air and did indeed detect a faint raspberry scent amid the smells of garbage and decay, though whether it was due to the power of suggestion I wasn’t sure.

  “Let’s take a closer look,” said Merc suddenly. I didn’t believe my ears. He led the way down the stairs built into the back of the wall, suddenly much more interested in this mystery than I was.

  From the gates, the main street of Offal ran straight about a hundred yards and widened into a large square paved with yellow flagstones. The square, strewn with rotting refuse, featured a public fountain and a collection of stinking market stalls, where craftsmen and traders hawked their wares, at least on normal days. Six caravan wagons were drawn up there, filled with crates and barrels, but untended. The draft animals were still in harness, though asleep like every other person and animal in sight.

  Several narrow secondary streets and alleys, also cluttered with garbage, radiated outward from the square, winding into shadows between various shops and apartment houses, none higher than two stories. The main avenue continued west to the blockish keep, which towered above the rest of the city, being some eighty feet above the ground at its highest point. There lived Governor Paulish Birksnore, the king’s deputy in charge of this half of Darnk. Four more wagons were parked at intervals along the street, the last just outside the entrance to the keep.

  We walked down to the square
, stepping gingerly over the comatose bodies that littered the ground, and approached the wagons. Merc climbed aboard the last one in line and rummaged through the crates, all of which were empty, until he found a blue metal canister six inches in diameter and a foot high. Its top featured a conical nozzle and a small metal lever.

  “This is a pressure canister, only available in the more advanced kingdoms,” said Merc grimly. “The gas is kept inside under pressure. When the nozzle is opened, it sprays the gas out over an area of several hundred yards. One of these fired from each wagon would be enough to put the whole city to sleep. Especially on a windless day like today.”

  “But what about the caravanners? Wouldn’t they be affected too?”

  “Not if they wore protective masks or took an antidote beforehand.”

  “So where are they?”

  In reply to my question, an arrow thunked into a crate beside Merc, who dove out of the wagon, did a handspring, and ended in a crouch. The archer, having appeared on a rooftop across the square, notched another arrow into place and fired again as we crawled under the wagon for cover.

  “Damn!” said Merc. “I was careless. We were under observation from the moment we entered the city. We’re probably surrounded by now.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  Five more arrows struck the wagon above us and the flagstones near by. They came from five different angles and directions. Merc spread his hands in a “see what I mean” gesture.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Think fast.”

  Half a dozen burly men were approaching from the direction of the palace, armed with swords, clubs, and maces. After seeing Merc handle the Black Bolts, I didn’t doubt we could take them—but the archers were another matter. If we got into a brawl, they’d simply pick us off at leisure.

  “My shades aren’t fully recharged yet,” said Merc. “All I can do is give couple of them a sunburn.”

  “Could you make this wagon roll on its own?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Merc’s face lit up and he tucked his shades back under his cloak. “Yes indeed!”

  The peg attaching the tongue to the wagon flew out at Merc’s mental command, freeing us from the dead weight of the slumbering draft horses. Merc and I clung to the underside of the wagon, wedging our fingers between the cracks in the floor planks. It rolled backwards, gathering speed as it headed for the main gate. Arrows struck the sides and top, but we were safe underneath. The approaching thugs broke into a run.

  “Can you go any faster?” I asked. “They’re gaining on us!”

  “The least of our worries!” said Merc. Another troop of brigands was charging toward us from the direction of the gates. An archer was among them, and he knelt to aim his arrows under the wagon, directly at our dragging bodies. Merc made the wagon swerve back and forth to deny him a clear shot. As our speed increased, this maneuvering threatened to sling us out into the street.

  A burning arrow hit the wagon and caused the empty wooden crates to burst into roaring flame. I felt my fingers blister as the planks I gripped grew hot.

  “They mean business,” said Merc.

  “Can you open the gates?” At the speed we had now reached, I didn’t want to crash.

  “One thing at a time!” The brigands ahead of us scattered as the flaming wagon bore down on them, then pursued us along with the others. Merc drove the wagon almost to the gates, then swung a hard right and brought it to a sudden halt. Inertia slammed us both to the ground. We were at the base of the stairway. Keeping low, we scrambled up the steps until we encountered several pairs of boots in our field of vision. We looked up into three drawn bows as the crowd pursuing us gathered around the burning wagon at the base of the wall.

  “Suggestions?” I said.

  “We surrender,” said Merc. “For now.”

  Two caravanners seized us and marched us along the wall toward the palace. The archers were right behind us so we didn’t try anything foolish as we were led up a winding staircase and into the governor’s top floor office. It was lit by an open skylight, with additional light from the balcony overlooking the city. The rotund governor, wearing a threadbare green robe, was sprawled on the rug asleep. In his chair sat another man, his feet propped on the governor’s desk. Behind him stood a living mountain.

  I had never seen anyone so large—ten feet tall and over a yard wide at the chest. His neck, arms, thighs, and hands were of similar proportions. He wore only a black loincloth, revealing the vast, muscular expanses of his mottled gray skin. His square face was pocked and scarred, made uglier by his filmy yellow eyes, beetled brow, sneering purple lips, and jagged brown teeth. Most grotesque of all was his greasy blond hair, which hung to his shoulders and was knotted around a human rib.

  The man at the governor’s desk had dark olive skin and close-cropped black hair. A long white scar ran down his left cheek. He wore bright yellow boots, pantaloons with vertical purple and white stripes, a wide red sash, and a loose black shirt open at the chest. Gold bracelets, rings, and earrings decorated the appropriate parts of his body.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  An archer saluted with his fist. “Interlopers, commander. They scaled the wall and investigated the wagons. We believe they are wizards.”

  “Why?” said the commander.

  “They made a wagon roll around on its own.”

  The commander laughed and looked us over with disdain. “A truly fearsome power. Wizards indeed! These are spies sent by the corrupt tyrant of this backwater kingdom to interfere with our glorious revolutionary activities. Yes, I know their ilk.” He stood, clasping his hands behind his back, and strutted toward us. “I am Zaran Zimzabar, Supreme Commander of the People’s Army of the New Glorious Order—PANGO. It is our mission to liberate the oppressed classes from all outmoded forms of society and government. I represent a new world order of universal brotherhood.”

  “You’re a lunatic,” said Merc. He turned to me and continued in the same pedantic manner he had used when describing Dylan. “This is just who I suspected we’d find here. Zaran here is a notorious terrorist responsible for dozens of assassinations, hijackings, kidnappings, and massacres. He kills women, children, nobles, peasants, and barnyard animals without remorse, all in the name of his twisted ideology. He’s mentally sick.”

  “I see,” I said uneasily. While I could believe everything Merc was saying, it seemed unwise for him to be saying it in our current situation.

  “You have heard of me then?” said Zaran, evidently pleased at Merc’s denunciation. He stopped before the wizard.

  “Some of your past victims were friends of mine,” said Merc. “What brings you to Darnk? Run out of babies to butcher in the civilized realms?”

  “My mission knows no boundaries,” said Zaran, strutting anew. “Eventually the demands of history will bring all lands under my sway. I have come here to claim this ill-protected pimple of corruption called Offal in the name of the New Glorious Order. It shall be renamed Zaranopolis and its people freed from their bondage to foul monarchy so that they may serve PANGO. This place shall be a haven for my cause, a training ground for my cadres, a base from which to strike numerous blows for liberation!” He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. “But meanwhile, what am I to do with you?” Zaran nodded toward the figure behind him. “Yezgar here is the son of a woman raped by an ogre. He enjoys killing. He would enjoy killing you. Can you give me a reason to let you live?”

  “Give us just a second,” I said quickly, before Mercury could insult our captor again. Good reasons for our continued existence filled my mind like exploding kernels of popcorn.

  Before I could share them, two glass balls dropped into the room from the skylight above and shattered on the floor, filling the air with hazy fumes that made me choke and cough and my eyes burn. Through my tears, I saw the attacker jump down into the room.

  She looked like a goddess of war. As tall as me, her every firm curve was outlined in silver sheen
by an armored bodysuit of metallic cloth. Most of her tan face was hidden by a winged helmet, but what I could see was grim and lovely, dominated by red lips drawn taut. She wielded a gleaming broadsword in her right hand, a small hand axe in her left, and had an array of other knives and blades strapped to her arms, thighs, and calves.

  “You are finished, Zaran Zimzabar!” she said. “Natalia Slash has found you at last!”

  * * *

  5

  My eyes burned like hellfire and I could barely breathe. Zaran, Merc, and Zaran’s men were also incapacitated. Not so Yezgar. The half-ogre sprang across the chamber with a bellowing roar and swung a massive fist at Natalia Slash. She deftly sidestepped it and hurled her hand axe into the monster’s chest. Undaunted, he swung again, this time connecting and knocking Natalia across the room and into the stone wall, which cracked under the impact. She crumpled to the floor but was quickly back on her feet, sword at ready.

  I jumped out of the way as Yezgar charged her again. One of the thugs wasn’t as quick and got trampled, dying with a bloody splash. As Yezgar drew near, Natalia sank her sword into his gut, yanked it out, and skipped around behind him. Yezgar crashed into the wall and went through it into the next chamber under a cascade of stone. Natalia turned toward the rest of us. “Now you perish, Zimzabar!”

  “Kill her!” commanded Zaran. His remaining men, however, rushed from the room in search of fresh air. The terrorist leader drew a curved knife from his sash. “You’ll not stop me, fool! I am the Living Scourge!”

  Combat seemed to involve a great deal of posturing, needling, and assertion of identity by the combatants. I had seen this in Lombardo, Dylan, Merc, and now Natalia and Zaran. Maybe they did it to bolster their own confidence or just to break the monotony of a life-or-death struggle. In any event, I hadn’t yet picked up the habit. While Zaran waved his knife and ranted, I acted, running and tackling him. Attacking an armed man when I had no weapons may seem brave, but seeing Yezgar returning I decided I’d rather handle Zaran.