Chapter Four
As he galloped eastward through the mountains Madrenga had much on which to brood. So many things had happened, so much had changed, in such a short period of time. Only necromancy of some kind could explain the physical transformations that had overcome his companions and himself. But what unknown mage was interfering in his life? Did it have something to do with the obligation he had taken on, or were the continuing transmogrifications affecting both him and his animals due to something separate and apart from his task? What force had rendered him progressively bigger and stronger, turned Orania into a mount fit for a king, and fashioned Bit into the puppy from Hell?
More importantly, why?
Counselor Natoum might know the answers. But Counselor Natoum was not here. Furthermore, Madrenga wasn’t sure he knew the questions. Certainly if the strange phenomenon that had overtaken him and his companions persisted, he would vigorously confront the senior court advisor upon returning from Daria. For now, though, he could only press on. And quickly, since the rippling glow of torchlight behind him showed no sign of abating. Having acquired courage from numbers, had their strength supplemented by members of Hamuldar’s night watch, and doubtless egged on by Langan’s furious elderly partner, a mass of angry townsfolk was still in pursuit. Had he known of the night watch’s lack of enthusiasm for the chase, the youth might have relaxed. Like so many of their compatriots elsewhere, they were charged with pursuing—not necessarily with catching.
Trundling down the narrow road at a modest pace, the double-decker wagon blocking the road ahead showed dim lights in its upper story. Smoke curled from the crooked stovepipe that jutted through the tough canvas roof. A team of six catarox yoked three abreast trudged methodically forward, alternately bellowing and meowing gruffly. A familiar sight from home and from childhood, the sight of the powerful dray animals moved the fleeing Madrenga to near tears. Poverty and lack of family notwithstanding, he suddenly found himself wishing he was back home in Harup-taw-shet. At least there he knew well his surroundings, which of his acquaintances could be counted as friends and which as enemies, and what his boot size would be when he woke up each morning.
On the other hand, he mused as he considered his strengthened arms, more powerful legs, and broadened chest, there were compensations to traveling under the dark cloud of an interpositioning thamaturgy he did not understand.
Given the speed at which he was moving, his fear of being overtaken was gradually beginning to subside. Orania, enchanted, all but flew along the winding dirt road, the tips of her extended mane occasionally reaching back far enough to tickle his face. Seemingly now made of solid, polished obsidian, her enlarged hooves seemed to skim rather than touch the ground. For all he knew, that was the case. He was not about to lean over and down far enough to find out for certain lest his deeply inclined torso intercept a passing rock or tree. It was enough that she was keeping well ahead of the ongoing chase, if not actually putting much distance between him and his pursuers.
His concern was that sooner or later she would begin to tire, whereas any organized pursuit might have brought along spare mounts. It was therefore imperative that he leave the ill-intentioned citizens of Hamuldar far behind, or else find a place to hide.
That one should so suddenly and unexpectedly be presented to him was a boon even magic seemed hard-pressed to explain.
As he prepared to send Orania dashing around the right side of the ambling, rumbling, two-story wagon, the back end of the lower floor dropped open, crashing to the ground where its leading edge began to kick up dirt and gravel. Standing in the opening to the storage area thus revealed was a woman Madrenga guessed to be on the verge of embarking on her fourth decade. Her black hair was secured in a silk neckerchief. Clad in a simple skirt and brightly embroidered blouse, she gestured anxiously to him with a hand that had seen much hard labor.
Her gesturing fingers and the look in her eyes combined to create an invitation that was unmistakable. Accepting without a word, he directed Orania forward. The clack-clack of her hooves as she strode up the wooden ramp told him that her feet were indeed touching the ground.
As soon as horse, rider, and dog were inside, the woman pulled a lever set into one wall. Counterweights plunged and the ramp was pulled up, once more forming a solid back to the wagon. Turning, she shouted forward. Responding to urgent commands from the unseen driver, the two teams of catarox swung slowly to their left. The jouncing beneath Madrenga’s feet intensified as he dismounted, suggesting that they had turned off onto a side road. Seeing the look of fear that had suddenly appeared on the woman’s face at the sight of Bit, the youth hastened to reassure her.
“That’s just Bit. He won’t hurt you.” Hearing his name, the dog opened his mouth and let his tongue loll freely. The fact that it hit the floor did not reassure the woman. Nor did the sight of the stocky, muscular canine’s outrageously deformed dentition. “He only bites those he thinks are threatening me.”
“Remind me never to threaten you, then.”
It struck Madrenga that the woman was looking up at him. This was odd, because judging by her height they ought to have been nearly eye to eye. With a shock he realized that he had grown even more since the near-fatal encounter in Hamuldar’s square. Miraculously, his clothing had stretched and lengthened to accommodate his increased size. In addition to the argent armor that had appeared over his shins, matching plates now adorned his sleeves. So preoccupied had he been with the events of the past few hours, that he had failed to notice the transformation in both his attire and himself. A glance showed that Bit’s leather collar had acquired metal studs while the enigmatic breastplate that had affixed itself to Orania’s tack had expanded to cover the rest of her chest and her upper legs as well.
The woman was watching him uncertainly. “Are you all right, noble sir? You have the look of one forced to stand too long on the deck of a heaving vessel.”
He shook his head. “I’m all right—I guess.”
“You guess?”
Still attractive despite her relatively simple garb and lack of jewelry or cosmetics, he found himself thinking that she would have been a raging beauty not ten years or so ago. A hard life had sandpapered her looks. The eyes, though, still flashed. Under different circumstances she might have been vivacious. Now she appeared tired—and concerned.
“I have been under some strain lately,” he told her by way of explanation. “I have been suffering from a condition for which I have neither explanation nor remedy.”
“You look healthy enough.” Her gaze moved from his chest to his arms, which by this time had expanded far beyond what any impartial observer would have described as youthful. It was the body not just of a healthy young man, but of a warrior. Though he had readily noted the changes in his animal companions, Madrenga had remained somewhat oblivious to his own physical transformation because he was, in the truest sense, too close to it. It is one thing to observe sorcery at work; quite another to inhabit it.
“Something else. You called me ‘noble sir’. I am no noble, but only a humble delivery boy.”
This admission caused her to grin. She patted him on the chest. “I will acquit you humble, then, but of your claimed delivery I know nothing. I do know that you are no boy.” Her expression turned serious again. “Were that the observed case I would not have offered you concealment from those who hunt.”
His expression narrowed. “How did you know I was being pursued?”
“I inferred it from the look on your face and the speed at which you were riding.” Her eyes met his. “Was I wrong?”
He hesitated, then replied honestly. Many things could he sense filling this mobile household, but neither malice nor duplicity was among them.
“No. I was involved in an altercation in Hamuldar. A number of the townsfolk have chosen to judge the outcome in an unkind manner, and so I was forced to depart in haste.” Gazing past her, he regarded the back wall-cum-ramp that formed the rear of the wagon’s lower floor. “I would have expected to hear them by now, if only in passing.”
“Doubtless their anger and single-mindedness have propelled them further along the main road. We turned off it a little while ago.”
He nodded. “Would it be overmuch to trouble you for something to eat? For my mount and dog as well, if you can manage it. I can pay.” He sighed heavily. “I intended to do so in Hamuldar, so the money might as well go to you.”
She shook her head and smiled. “We will gladly share with you, traveler, and take no coin. Seeing your satisfaction will be payment enough. I am Elenna.”
“I am called Madrenga.”
For what reason he could not imagine, this revelation visibly took her aback, though she recovered quickly. “Madrenga. I am—pleased, I suppose.” Brushing past him, she lifted a hanging cloth divider, looked back, and beckoned for him to follow. “First we will provide some fodder for your magnificence of a horse, then find something for the dog with the steel-trap jaws to chew upon. I regret we have no gryphon bone, for such I think he would make short work of. Then you and I can sup, and have a talk.”
“What about your driver?” While tired and confused, the youth was ever polite.
“My husband has already eaten, though he will be pleased to share talk with us. Come—Madrenga.”
Why his name should prompt such evident hesitation on her part he did not know. As it usually did, however, the promise of food easily overrode any inclination to engage in extended philosophical speculation.
Shared on the first floor, covered bench at the front of the wagon, the meal was not only filling but excellent. Everything about Elenna and her husband Bieracol hinted at a monied existence that belied their current circumstances. The more they talked, the more he came to know them, the greater the refinement he detected in their speech and mannerisms. A merchant family fallen on hard times, he thought, or perhaps the last of a line of debased nobility. Curious though he was, he did not pry. They would explain their situation to him of their own free will or he would be content to remain in courteous ignorance.
Elenna did elucidate, but the words were not those he was anticipating. “My husband and I once traded in gems and precious metals. Gold, silver, loose stones, corium …” She gestured at his right arm. “Like that which guards your lower legs and forearms.”
So that was what the magically materialized metal was, Madrenga mused. Corium. The same material of which the scroll container he carried was forged. “My dear Bieracol made some unwise investments and we lost everything save this wagon and its humble contents.” To the youth’s surprise and unease, she looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Much to his relief, she collected her emotions and continued calmly. “Now it seems we have also lost that which is most precious to us.”
“Jewelry?” Madrenga wondered aloud. “Family treasure?”
“Family treasure for certain.” She sniffled but managed to keep her emotions under control. “Our daughter Elenacol has been taken from us.” Anger replaced sorrow in her face and voice. “Stolen away while my husband and I were engaged in a business transaction of some import. When we returned to our wagon, we found only a note she managed to scribble in her own blood.” Turning and reaching back into the wagon proper, she brought forth a small chest. From its interior she removed a piece of paper that had been crumpled and then smoothed back out. As she showed it to Madrenga he started to recoil, then relaxed when he saw that the words originally scribed in blood had dried to a soot-like black. The image this conjured continued to make him a little queasy.
He stared at the missive. The hastily scrawled script on the paper flowed from a feminine hand, but it would not have mattered had it been written in large block letters. His tone was apologetic.
“I am ashamed to say that I cannot read, Elenna.”
She eyed him in surprise. “One as old and clearly experienced as yourself?”
He looked down, feeling even less than his actual age. “I am neither as old nor as experienced as my present appearance may lead you to believe.”
Her brows drew together. On the other side of the platform her husband held firm to the reins as he guided the double team of catarox onward through the night. Though Bieracol was letting his wife do all the talking, Madrenga felt certain the older man missed nothing. His profound silence was a reflection of his spouse’s intensity.
“The name of her kidnapper is Kakran-mul. We made inquiries in Hamuldar. He is well known in this region as a merchant of skill and cunning who is as ruthless in his personal affairs as he is in commerce. In the course of doing business in the town we had a brief exchange with him of what we thought were pleasantries. No trade was carried out and no money changed hands.” She took a deep breath. “Little did we know, how could we guess, that all the time he was speaking to us of metal prices what he was actually coveting was our daughter.”
“Is there no way he will agree to return her to you?” Having never known his true parents, Madrenga could scarce imagine what it must be like to have them only to be stolen away.
Elenna shook her head and the black hair that fell to her waist rippled like a waterfall made of liquefied coal. “Through an intermediary we immediately offered to ransom her. We said that despite our reduced circumstances we would find the means to pay whatever he requested. Kakran-mul replied that he had enough money but not enough wives.” The woman’s lips tightened. “Utterly disregarding our anguish and despair he chose to mock us.” Looking past their passenger, she nodded toward her still silent husband. “Bieracol threatened to steal into his dwelling and blind him, but he only laughed. ‘Come and try’, he said.” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“We are merchants, traders. Peaceful folk, not warriors. Even so, we were informed that he caused to be placed around his residence a newly purchased spell especially composed to keep out any relations or even close friends of our daughter.” She met his gaze. “You, Madrenga, are neither. You are a stranger to both Elenacol and to Kakran-mul. You can stroll into his compound and the restraining spell will not affect you.”
“Perhaps,” Madrenga conceded. “The question that follows naturally is, would I be able to walk out again?”
In front of them, the middle of the lead three catarox let out an agitated bawl and nipped at the one on her left. The big male hissed and snapped back. As he jerked on a pair of heavy leather reins Bieracol shouted something that echoed through the night. The catarox returned to their plodding. Elenacol nodded in the direction of her passenger’s waist.
“With your youth, size, strength, and mighty sword, you could rescue our daughter. She is but a wisp of a thing whom you could easily carry to freedom while simultaneously wielding your weapon.”
“What mighty sword?” Madrenga protested. “I don’t have a …” A glance at his waist cut short his insistence. Like Bit, like Orania, like himself and his clothing, his knife had also been transformed. It was now indeed a prodigious blade nearly as long as his arm. Open-mouthed with surprise he reached down and pulled it part way from its scabbard. Even in the moonlight the double-sided blade glistened. It felt surprisingly light in his grasp.
“Corium?” He marveled at the transformation that had overtaken his modest childhood weapon.
She eyed it appraisingly. “No, that’s steel. Very fine steel by the looks of it. Where did you get it? A present from some Lord?”
“N-no … I don’t know where I got it. I don’t know how I got it. To me it was only a knife. An old friend of a small blade that has somehow now become something else.”
“You are a strange youth, Madrenga.”
“More and more I find myself agreeing with that,” he replied fervently.
Elenna’s voice was effervescent with eagerness. “Then you will try to rescue our daughter?”
Looking away, he let his gaze reach out beyond the lead catarox, into the dead of night. “I cannot. I am on a royal mission. I have no time for detours. I thank you for hiding me from the misguided townsfolk of Hamuldar, and for the food, and the ride, but I cannot change course. There is too much at stake for me.”
“Our daughter’s future is at stake.” Elenna spoke softly. “I cannot compel you, Madrenga. We can only pay, and I can only beg.” The waterfall of black hair seemed to rise up behind her to frame her dark face. When he said nothing, she added, “We saved your life.”
“Perhaps,” he argued. “With my ‘mighty sword’ I might have been able to fight off my pursuers, had they managed to catch up to me.”
“That is the thing of saving a life,” she told him. “When it fails, the loser is often unaware of what has happened.” Bowing her head, she reached forward to place a hand on each of his knees. “I said I would beg. I am doing so now. Do this thing for us, and then go wherever your mission or desire takes you. Leave this family whole again.”
He swallowed. He was embarrassed and unsettled. His had been a lifetime of begging. Having someone else beg him for something was profoundly unnerving. Reaching down, he gently took her hands in his and placed them back in her lap.
“Good Elenna, I have no experience at this sort of thing. No matter what you think and how I presently appear, I possess not the knowledge that would enable me to carry out such a rescue.”
Raising her head, her gaze once more met his. “You have youth, and strength, and energy. However you came by that sword, such weaponry does not find its way to those who are reluctant to make use of it.”
“I can use a knife,” he admitted.
“Then do so!” Her voice rose until it seemed to envelope him, the wagon, the heaving catarox, and the few scudding clouds overhead. “Use it like a knife, if you must, but employ it to save our daughter!”
For long moments it was silent save for the creaking of the wheels and the snuffling of the catarox. “You’re sure this spell is designed only to keep out friends and relatives?”
She shrugged. “If not, then you will be prevented from entering the compound. No harm done then, and Bieracol and I will be forced to try something else.”
“If I did manage to get inside … I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“We are asking you to liberate, not kill. Not even, for all his evil, Kakran-mul. Any such decisions remain ultimately with you.” She smiled encouragingly. “You may not be able to read, but you are good with words. Mayhap you can talk to him.”
Sure, the youth thought. Like he had talked to Langan of Jithros and his manager back in Hamuldar. His talking had led to his having to flee, and thence to the discomforting situation in which he presently found himself.
But perhaps the distraught mother was right. As a rank outsider maybe he could talk to this Kakran-mul. It wouldn’t constitute much of a diversion, he rationalized. A few minutes chat. Then he could return to the bereaved parents and declare himself the perpetrator of an honorable failure before continuing on his way clear of conscience.
“Very well. I will try to talk with this Kakran-mul.”
“Yes, yes, reason with him! Promise him anything, but return our daughter to us!” Unable to restrain her emotions any longer, a relieved Elenna threw her arms around the youth and began to sob openly. Not knowing what to do with his hands, a flustered Madrenga could do no better than hold them down at his sides.
What, he wondered, had he gone and gotten himself into now? What if this Kakran-mul, who sounded like a much tougher character than even Langan of Jithros, was not in the mood for polite conversation? The partial armor that Madrenga had somehow acquired was far from extensive enough to protect his vital regions. “Reason with him,” the agitated mother had suggested. Reason would not stop a line of spears or a flight of arrows.
Too late now, he told himself. He had surrendered his better judgment to sympathy. Nothing for it now but to follow through. As for the mighty sword slung at his belt, he had a sinking feeling that if words failed, he would not know how to make proper use of it.
Better learn fast, a voice in his head declared.