Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“What are we to do now, then?” Paroud asked, as soon as Pagonel moved out of sight.
“We might just move around the oasis from the north and await the mystic on the western road,” Pechter Dan Turk offered.
“With our skins empty of water?” Moripicus asked.
“With our skins still on our bodies!” Pechter Dan Turk replied.
“Information is our ally here,” Moripicus scolded him. “We go to grovel at the feet of the smelly To-gai-ru and we do not even know for certain that Yatol Bardoh is assembling any force against Yatol Mado Wadon. There lie our answers.”
“We can walk right in,” Paroud agreed. “Greetings, possible traitors! We are ambassadors from Yatol Wadon, whom you wish to kill!”
Moripicus narrowed his eyes as he stared at the sarcastic man from Cosinnida.
“We are no such thing,” Pechter Dan Turk put in. “We are … merchants. Yes, merchants! Traveling the road about Jacintha.”
“Without wares?” Moripicus said dryly.
“In search of wares!” Pechter Dan Turk insisted.
“Without money?” said Paroud, before Moripicus could point out that obvious shortcoming in the disguise.
“We … we,” Pechter Dan Turk stammered over a few possibilities, then just shook his head and blurted, “We buried our money in the desert nearby! One cannot be too careful about thieves, after all!”
“Yes, and when we tell that to hungry renegade warriors, they will take us into the desert at spearpoint, and when we cannot give them any money, they will run us through and leave us for the vultures to pick clean!”
“But …” Pechter Dan Turk started to argue, but he was cut short by Moripicus.
“We are scholars.”
The other two looked at him doubtfully.
“Is not the Library of Pruda now reassembled in Dharyan-Dharielle?” Moripicus asked. “So we will become scholars, walking the road to the Library of Pruda, and if any of the soldiers down there take exception to that library now being in the city of the Dragon of To-gai, we will simply agree. Tell them that we despise the thought of our great scholarly works being in the hands of dirty Ru dogs.”
“Yes, we are going merely to ensure that the precious works survive,” Paroud added, catching on to the possibilities.
“Scholars, scholars from Pruda, and without political aspirations or affiliations, except that we all hate the To-gai-ru,” said Moripicus.
“An easy enough mask to carry,” agreed Paroud, who did indeed hate the To-gai-ru.
“Then why go to Dharyan-Dharielle?” asked the oblivious Pechter Dan Turk. “The place is crawling with Ru!”
The other two just looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started back to the southeast, to strike the road far out of sight of Dahdah.
S
everal merchant caravans were in the oasis, as usual, but the place was dominated by the presence of the soldiers. They were everywhere, at the water’s edge and mingling about every caravan with impunity. They inspected wares, and simply took what they wanted.
Pagonel felt the eyes upon him as soon as he walked into the oasis area. He was not wearing his Jhesta Tu robes for this dangerous return trip, but he certainly did not seem to fit in among the dirty rabble and loud merchants. He took care not to make eye contact with any of the warriors, so as not to begin any confrontation. He was here to gather information, not start a war.
He moved quietly across the shade of a line of date trees nearer to a merchant wagon, whose owner was apparently confronting a soldier.
“You cannot just take what you wish to take!” the merchant cried, and he reached for a silken swatch the soldier held.
The soldier pulled his hand back and blocked the advancing merchant with his free hand. “I have a sword,” he warned, flashing a toothy smile.
The merchant backed off a step and waved his fist in the air. “I have a sword, too!” he insisted.
“Ah yes, but I have three hundred swords,” the soldier retorted, and he nodded. Three other men descended on the poor merchant, herding him back toward his wagon, slapping and kicking him repeatedly, and laughing all the while.
“The authorities in Jacintha will hear of this!” the man cried. “I have friends in Chom Deiru!”
That was all the soldiers needed to hear, but not to any effect the merchant had hoped. He was still waving his fist in the air when the nearest soldier drew out a dagger and plunged it into his side. He wailed and fell away—or tried to, for the other two similarly drew out knives.
The three fell over him, stabbing him repeatedly even as he slumped down to the ground.
Pagonel had to fight every instinct within him not to intervene, reminding himself repeatedly that to do so might hold greater consequences than the unfortunate murder of this one man.
“Are you a friend of this man?” the soldier with the clean hands and silk swatch demanded when he turned to see Pagonel standing there watching.
“I am a simple traveler,” the Jhesta Tu mystic replied.
“To where? To Jacintha?”
“I have come from Jacintha,” Pagonel answered. “My road is west.”
“He’s got Ru blood in him,” said one of the men who had finished with the dead merchant.
“Yeah, he’s got the stink of Ru all about him,” agreed a second, and all three moved to join their companion, who was holding the stolen silk. Two even fanned out a bit, somewhat hemming in the mystic.
“You know what we do to Ru in Behren, eh?” remarked one of the bloody knife-wielders, and he brandished his blade threateningly.
Pagonel kept a proper amount of attention on the blustering man, but he noticed the arrival of his three companions, then, wandering into the oasis area down the eastern road. They nodded and bowed to every soldier they passed, trying to be diplomatic, even submissive, but in truth doing nothing more than drawing attention to themselves.
They made their way quickly past the various groups of soldiers, walking swiftly, but then Paroud noticed Pagonel, the soldiers moving in closer, and he stopped short, all three gawking in the mystic’s direction.
“I desire no trouble, friends,” Pagonel said quietly. “I have come from the southland, following rumors of turmoil. My masters wish to help, if they may, in healing Behren’s wounds.”
“Wounds?” asked the soldier with the silk. He looked to his friends and they all laughed. “All that is wounded are the coffers of the imposter Chezru! They have been torn asunder, their gems and jewels spilling out.”
“Spilling out to our waiting hands!” another added.
“You march to Jacintha?” Pagonel asked.
“You ask too many questions,” one of the men retorted. “Who is your master?”
“Yes, tell us where we must send your headless body,” another added. The two men who had fanned out to each side moved in closer then, brandishing their knives dangerously close to the seemingly unarmed mystic.
Pagonel glanced to the side, to see another group of soldiers closing fast on his three traveling companions. Those three noticed it as well.
Paroud broke left, screaming as he ran back toward the east. He would have been captured almost immediately, and likely gutted, but then Moripicus pointed at Pagonel, and shouted, “Jhesta Tu!”
Every soldier in the area froze in place, and all eyes turned toward Pagonel.
The mystic felt the soldiers at his sides move in a bit closer, felt them tense up, as if preparing to strike.
He moved first, snapping his hands up suddenly, smashing the back of his fists into their faces. The man directly before him struck out hard with his knife, a slash aimed for Pagonel’s face.
But the mystic was far below the strike as the blade cut past, having dropped into a sudden low crouch.
Pagonel punched across with his right hand, smashing the inside of the soldier’s
right knee and buckling his leg out. A quick reversal had Pagonel’s elbow smashing the inside of the man’s left knee, similarly widening his stance, and then the mystic brought his hand back to center and turned his arm to the vertical and delivered the coup de grace by punching straight up between the stunned man’s widespread legs.
He lifted the soldier right off the ground with the weight of the blow, and given its location, all fight went out of the soldier. The man sucked in his breath, clutched at his groin, and slowly tumbled down to the side.
Pagonel wasn’t watching, though. As soon as he delivered the crippling blow, the mystic brought his hand back in close and leaped a sideways somersault to the right, landing lightly on his feet in perfect balance and coming up suddenly and ferociously before the knife-wielding soldier. He led with his forearm as he rose, pushing aside the man’s feeble attempt to stab at him, then driving his arm across the man’s face, knocking him backward.
As Pagonel retracted, the soldier was still stumbling, his head still up from the blow, offering a fine opening at his throat.
Pagonel’s stiffened left hand took that opening, though the mystic held back enough so that he did not actually kill the man.
The soldier gasped and fell away and Pagonel swung back the other way to meet the charge of the third.
More to dodge it than to meet it, actually, for the mystic fell suddenly again, spinning as he dropped and swinging one foot out wide to trip up the advancing soldier.
Up came Pagonel as the man flailed and stumbled in a turning descent. The mystic’s fists hit him, left, right, left, on the chest as he went down, and Pagonel leaped away.
It had all happened in the blink of an eye, it seemed, and so the soldier holding the stolen silk swatch was still not even ready with any kind of defense. He flailed his arms wildly before him to fend off the mystic, but Pagonel wasn’t really engaging him anyway, but rather, was using him as a springboard to the top of the merchant’s wagon. A great leap brought the mystic up high and he planted his foot on the flailing man’s shoulder and leaped away from there, easily gaining the wagon roof and rushing across to the other side.
P
aroud heard Moripicus’ cry, and though he felt sorry that his friend had betrayed Pagonel, he was certainly glad for the personal reprieve! For those soldiers who had begun to take up the chase on him stopped suddenly and swung back the other way.
The frightened man mingled into a group of merchants, scrambling through their ranks and out the back side of their wagons, making his way to the lower ground by the water’s edge. Then he ran along that edge, using the distraction to get all the way out of the oasis. He ran flat out down the eastern road, back the way he had come, back toward the safety of Jacintha.
Across the way, Pechter Dan Turk similarly used the distraction to move away, but he, unlike his companion, headed for the west.
Moripicus hesitated at his spot for a short while, watching Pagonel’s furious escape attempt, and even whispered, “Forgive me, mystic,” then turned to follow Pechter Dan Turk.
He turned right into the blocking chest of a soldier, though, and one who had obviously heard his soft plea for forgiveness.
P
agonel hit the ground softly, his legs buckling under him as he fell sidelong to the sand. He reversed his momentum completely and rolled back under the wagon, coming to his belly directly beneath it. He pushed up hard with his hands, lifting himself right from the ground to slam up against the undercarriage of the wagon. Out snapped his hands and feet, pressing out against the frame and locking the mystic in place.
Soldiers swept by the wagon, scrambling all about to catch up to him. A couple were even cunning enough to fall and glance under the wagon, but none moved under enough and turned his eyes up to see the splayed mystic in his perch.
Gradually, the tide of soldiers swept away, but Pagonel had to hold his position much longer, he knew.
He heard a commotion over by the area where he had engaged the three men, heard a familiar voice pleading for mercy.
“I warned you!” Moripicus begged. “I told you he was Jhesta Tu, yes?”
“And how did you know?” an angry soldier demanded.
Pagonel took a deep breath. He could tell from the soldier’s tone that this was not going to go well for Moripicus. The mystic dropped to the sand, landing on hands and knees and looking out toward the voices.
Just in time to see Moripicus forced down to his knees, his head pulled forward forcefully by a soldier tugging his hair, while two others held his arms back.
Pagonel was about to shout out, and to roll out from under the wagon, but it was too late, and all he could do was avert his eyes as another soldier brought his great khopesh swinging down to behead the man.
Tellingly, the executioner invoked the name of “Chezru Tohen Bardoh” as he carried out the death sentence.
Pagonel gave a quick scan of the area, trying to sort out the other two Jacintha emissaries, but neither was to be found. With great regret, the mystic went back up tight under the wagon and waited for the cover of darkness.
P
echter Dan Turk crouched behind a dune, shivering in the cold night air and terrified that pursuit would come out from that now-distant oasis. He knew Moripicus was dead, though he had already been out and running to the west before the execution, and knew, too, that he would also be killed if the soldiers caught up to him.
What to do?
He thought that he should return to Jacintha to report this tragedy to Yatol Wadon, though he didn’t like the prospects of trying to slip past the legion.
What then? Was he to go on to Dharyan-Dharielle? The man had been uneasy with the prospects of dealing with the foreign To-gai-ru all along, but now the thought of going in there alone positively terrified him. At that time, though, huddled in the cold desert sand, the sounds of the night about him, the fires of the legion glowing in the black sky to the east, Pechter Dan Turk would have been relieved indeed to see the gates of the city of the Dragon of To-gai.
A noise to the side startled him, and he snapped his gaze that way, his eyes wide. He trembled and huddled, trying to stay lower in the sand.
A pair of pale eyes stared back at him for a moment, and then the creature, a small, doglike lupina, wandered away, skittering fast and looking back at him. A single lupina didn’t seem much of a threat, but Pechter Dan Turk knew enough about the open desert to realize that where there was one lupina, there were usually a dozen more.