"The Cursed Oasis"
May. 10th, 2022 06:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Cursed Oasis"
12/3-12/4/1212 DR
I.
His horse had died four days earlier. Piece by piece, Romal had been forced to discard the gear he had tried to carry across the desert. Under the vicious Khebir sun, he had trudged toward the horizon without hope, only stubborn determination. Even his unnatural strength and endurance were reaching their limits.
Created by the Darthan Kjes using forbidden arts, Romal the Mongrel seemed to be a normal Human man barely twenty years old, with shaggy black hair and dark blue eyes under heavy brows. He was over six feet in height and powerfully built but even that was still deceptive. In his body was the full strength of a Fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man, as well as traits from the other Seven Races. But he had limits like all flesh and blood, and he was reaching them.
Romal had tried to sleep during the worst of the daytime heat, digging a pit in the sand and covering himself with his cloak. At night, the Khebir desert cooled slightly but not enough. Today he had felt weakened so much that he had spurred himself in a half-unconscious effort to reach some sort of refuge.
He still wore his boots, black pants and blue tunic, with the Signarm-made sword hanging from its baldric. Sheathed at his belt was the wide-bladed knife that was meant to be more tool than weapon. The yellow cloak had been pulled up over his head to provide what shade it could. His lips were so swollen and cracked that he could not close his mouth. The sweat that had been trickling in his eyes had stopped, which was a bad sign indeed.
The sun was low behind him. His shadow stretched out black and distorted over the unmeasured miles of hot sand in front. The Mongrel was no longer fully aware of why he still fought to live. It was deep in his nature to never yield. Ahead of him was another in the endless series of dunes and he forced his aching body to keep carrying him forward. As he crested the dune, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to his knees.
Romal realized death was upon him. Such a short life. He had only escaped from Maroch and set out into the world a year earlier, and now his bones would whiten where no one was likely to ever find them. Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped his burning eyes with the back of one hand. Romal took a deep shuddering breath as unexpected hope returned.
Before him, in a shallow valley, were trees and grass and a town of stone buildings. He could see people and camels walking about. For one instant, the Mongrel thought he must be delirious and only seeing what he wanted to see. It didn't matter. He wanted to live. Romal drew on final resources he hadn't known he possessed. He rose again but fell, tumbling down the sand toward the town.
When he reached level ground, where sand gave way to dry dirt, Romal fought his way back up to his feet again. He stood with feet braced well apart, head spinning, as a man approached him.
The townsman was a typical Khebiran, short and lean and dark, with glossy straight black hair. He wore a loose white garment of thin cotton that reached to his ankles and he had a gourd slung from one shoulder.
When he saw that gourd, Romal almost wept with joy. He croaked "Water?" through ragged lips.
Stepping closer, the Khebiran sneered. "What do you have to offer in exchange, foreigner?"
Romal's hand darted out to close around the man's throat like the deadly jaws of a crocodile. Even weakened near death, that grip was painfully tight. As the Khebiran gasped and wriggled ineffectually to break free, the Mongrel seized the gourd and popped out its cork with a thumb. The water inside was lukewarm and smelled of vinegar but he had never tasted anything better. Even in his extremity, Romal remembered to sip slowly and not gulp down the entire contents as he wanted to.
Other townspeople had drawn near, including several women with their hair drawn up in colorful turbans, half-naked children peering out from behind them. None seemed eager to interfere. Romal's stern face and his greater size, not to mention the sword at his left hip, deterred them. When the gourd was empty, the Mongrel felt his head clear a little. He released the Khebiran who had started to turn purple in the face.
"Is this how you welcome travelers?" the Mongrel demanded.
II.
A middle-aged woman approached him, bearing a wooden bucket by its handles. She held it out to him. "Here. Do not drink more for a little while, or you will retch. Wash with this instead."
The Mongrel gratefully rubbed the water on his hands and arms, swabbed some across his face and neck. Then he bent suddenly and dunked his head into the bucket. Accumulated sweat and grime were washed off. He raised his head, Romal swept back his hair with both hands. And, as he did so, he revealed his ears.
This was how Romal visibly differed from mortal Men. His ears rose to distinct points, like those of the Darthim and Eldanarin. The crowd had been growing and it muttered uneasily at the sight. Before anyone could speak, a man on a black horse forced his way through the gathering.
Wearing a breastplate and simple helmet of bronze over a short tunic instead of the long robes, this man bore a wide-bladed bronze sword and a dagger nearly as long in his girdle. He had no saddle, but sat on a woven blanket and gripped the sides of his mount with his knees. "Stranger," he intoned, "Know that you are entering Thuthmek. This oasis is under fealty to Prince Yathrib, Lord of All Khebir. Will you announce yourself?"
Feeling stronger, Romal straightened himself and placed his hand on his swordhilt. "I am Romal, called by some the Mongrel. I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, belonging nowhere. I come to you from the desert and ask only the basic courtesy extended by civilized people to strangers."
"Well spoken. Know that we are not all like that miserly merchant. He would cling to a moneysack even if it meant drowning. I am Menfu, a captain in the service of our magistrate Satnefer. Follow me." Without looking back, the soldier wheeled his horse about and rode off at a measured pace. Romal thanked the woman who had offered him the bucket of water and followed.
Although he had regained much of his strength, the Mongrel still was unsteady on his feet. Pride made him walk behind the black horse as if he had just risen from a good night's sleep. They passed through Tuthmek slowly, giving Romal ample time to take in the sights. Buildings made of stone slabs or dried clay bricks flanked a wide main avenue. None were over two stories high. There was a marketplace in the center of the town, where booths under striped awnings sold clothing or food or personal items like combs or cutlery.
The people moving about their business paused as they spotted the mounted soldier followed by an armed stronger. But they quickly resumed their activities in a nervous manner. Not all were Khebirans, either. A number of black-skinned Danarakans with their gold ornaments and short stabbing spears browsed at the stalls. There was even a yellow-bearded Skandoran, his skin deeply burned by exposure to the desert sun. Several beggars in dirty rags could be seen holding out their bowls for coins.
Two stone wells stood twenty feet across, topped with a wooden cover and a winch on a horizontal bar. Each well had a soldier standing vigil near it, arms folded and staying alert. Romal stepped up next to the horse and quietly asked, "How far is it to the nearest city?"
"Five days by horse or camel, if one brings enough provisions," Menfu answered easily enough. "We are near the end of a popular trade route. Caravans stop here often to rest and restock, and they pay well for the privilege."
"I see," said Romal. "It was mere chance that I came upon your town. I had no idea that Tuthmek was here."
"Expect our magistrate to be asking you many questions," the soldier told him. At the end of the main street was a formidable structure of white stone, roofed with gilded tiles. Two of the armored soldiers stood on either side of a massive wooden door, watching the approach of Menfu and the Mongrel with open suspicion.
"Hail to my brothers," called out Menfu. "Behold, a stranger has wandered in from the deadly sands. I believe our noble Satnefer will wish to speak with him."
"As you wish, Captain Menfu," said one of the soldiers. They pulled on massive bronze rings to slowly open the doors. Waiting within was an elderly man with a shaven head, leaning on an ebony staff more than six feet long and thick as a man's wrist. Over his linen gown, the old man wore a mantle across his shoulders inlaid with golden threads.
"Ah, Grand Advisor Zandu," said Menfu as he dismounted and handed the reins to a soldier. "Will you escort us into the presence?"
"That I will," replied the elder. He raised his staff, showing it was topped by a carved animal head which resembled a great serpent with long upper fangs showing in a gaping maw, The Grand Advisor stamped that staff twice on the tiled floor and turned to shamble into the interior of the building.
They passed through a high-ceiling reception room under a glass skylight, down a corridor flanked by open doors showing scribes at work with parchment and quill, through a final door marked with the rearing snake symbol of Khebir. Pausing, Zandu rapped sharply three times with his staff on that door before opening it.
Romal had not been sure what to expect. He entered a good-sized chamber that was so filled with benches and three-legged stools with somber scribes upon them as to seem oppressively crowded. Behind a table laden with scrolls and maps sat a fat man in a linen robe which was detailed with the rearing snake image. He wore, not a crown, but a thin bronze diadem shaped like plaited palm leaves. Like the Advisor and the scribes, his head had been shaved and Romal decided this was a mark of the local government.
Even though he still felt weaker than usual and badly wanted a meal, the Mongrel gave this Magistrate credit for doing his job. The man was pointing out items he disagreed with on some of the documents and listening to how the scribes made their counter-arguments. When he noticed Romal in the doorway, the fat man fixed eyes upon him that were shrewd and penetrating. Satnefer was no fool living in luxury while peasants starved to support him.
"Even in this remote outpost, we have heard tales of the Seven-In-One. Like the Silver Skull and Karina, though, it was thought you were but a figure from campfire tales," the Magistrate said.
"I am what I am," Romal answered. "You have my gratitude for welcoming me graciously into Thuthmek."
Getting a better look at his visitor, Satnnefer said, "Your skin is burnt and your lips raw. Zandu, have a page bring this man to a guest chamber. After he has been tended to, let him come to me for counsel. I think he will have much to tell me."
III.
Romal recovered more quickly than any expected. Black-skinned Danarakan slaves laved his body with warm soapy water and then rubbed healing ointments where his skin was broken and torn. It was strange to see the muscular hard-faced men be so gentle when treating him but they seemed genuinely caring. The Mongrel was given a jug of red wine diluted with water, dishes of sliced melon and dried figs and green olives. Then came a modest amount of roasted goat garnished with peppers.
The slaves watched him solicitously, warning him to eat slowly and to sip the wine a mouthful at a time. When he finished the meal without getting sick, they seemed pleased.
"You have treated me well, and I will remember that," the Mongrel said. He had been naked except for a white apron over his groin, but now his clothes were returned to him. They had been scrubbed, dried over hot stones and patched where worn out.
He still was not entirely sure if he could trust these people. But then he had little inclination to trust any Race, whether Human or Darthim or Eldanarin. He was the only living being who was not fully kin somewhere.
Romal dressed himself before the Danarakans could offer to help. He fastened the Trom-metal band around his brow, brushing his hair back to cover his ears. As he felt the weight of the yellow cloak hang from his shoulders, he felt truly himself again for the first time in a week.
"I would speak with your Magistrate if he is ready," Romal said. The Danarakans were picking up empty plates and bowls, gathering wet towels and basins of soapy water. One of them went to the door of the bedchamber and gestured out into the hall.
"Our duties call us elsewhere, honored one," one of the slaves explained. "Elantia will escort you to the presence." As the three black men left the room, a young girl in her teens slipped past them and bowed before Romal.
She was clearly not a native Khebiran. Eight inches over five feet tall, slim and displaying long elegant legs, she had a thick mane of hair of a gorgeous auburn hue and bright green eyes in a heart-shaped face. Elantia wore one of the loose white linen robes that seemed almost universal in this oasis, but hers was belted at her narrow waist to emphasis her sleek curves.
Taking in the sight of her, Romal felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest that was akin to fear. He was young after all, raised by the cold malicious Darthim, and he as yet had not experienced the company of women to any extent. Thumbs tucked into his belt, he took a breath and managed, "I daresay you have a tale to tell."
"Of how I ended up here, in vile service no better off than those poor black men? Oh yes, my lord. I was a child when Prince Yathrib claimed me after a battle with the Myrrwhans. We are warrior women, skilled and courageous as any who walk this world. If I had been a year or two older, trained in fighting arts...!"
She broke off abruptly. Folding her hands in front of her, Elantia bowed deeply from the waist. "Forgive me, my lord. It is not for me to speak of such things. I have been waiting to escort you to the Magistrate's chambers. Will you follow me?"
Romal caught himself before he could answer, 'Anywhere.' He said "Yes" instead and went with her out in a stone-walled corridor lit by tall candles in sconces fastened at head level. Romal noticed that shutters had been fastened over the unglassed windows... not wooden shutters, but substantial slabs of bronze held fast by bolts shot with thick cylinders.
The Mongrel frowned. Why such extreme measures? He had not seen anything in the town that merited defenses like that. Was there danger of fierce nomads raiding from the desert? This one detail reminded him how fortified the Magistrate's building was, with its high walls topped with broken ceramic pieces.
As they walked at a leisurely pace, the Myrrwhan slave girl pressed close to Romal. She lifted her face and whispered in a tone that would not be heard at arm's length, "Travelers have disappeared after arriving here. Solitary men ride into Thuthmek and are said to have to moved on... but in truth they were never seen again. Relatives or friends sometimes come here asking for them, only to be met with unhelpful shrugs."
Romal had slowed even more. He bent his head and said, "It's a dangerous world. I have seen how the Khebir desert can claim the lives of any who enter it..."
"No!" she snapped. "Everything the traveler owned was sold in a day or two in the marketplace. Horse, clothing, weapons, all sold. I do not believe that a visitor to this cursed oasis walked away naked into the wilderness."
The Mongrel watched her, trying to keep his face expressionless but not doing very well. There was some delicate floral scent in her hair that drew him closer. He could not help but think that the way she raised her face left her inviting a kiss.
But he clenched his hands and scowled. No one in this world could he trust, neither man nor woman. He was feared and loathed as a freak with no place in the natural order. He possessed traits and strengths of all Seven Races, yet was welcomed by none. He had to bear that in mind always.
Seeing his skepticism, Elantia fumed. "Why do I trouble myself? What are you to me? Let yourself meet the same awful doom as other solitary travelers, it matters not to me."
"I thank you for your concern," the Mongrel retorted.
The Myrrwhan girl led him around another corner and down one more corridor. Niches in the walls held stone busts of Khebir deities and a frieze recounting the warlike exploits of Prince Yathrib. At the end of the hall was a massive ebony door inlaid with gold strips, and flanking it were two more of the bronze-armored guards.
"We have come as bidden," the redhaired slave announced as she held up an open palm in salute.
One of the soldiers let an amiable smile slip past his professional pokerface. "And welcome company you always are, Elantia. Still, we were instructed to admit only the outlander for the moment." He gripped a heavy gilded knocker crafted in the shape of a lion's head and pulled the door outward despite its resistance. As Romal stepped through the guards closed the door behind him with a decisive click.
A waft of air heavy with the tang of hashish greeted the Mongrel. In a low-ceilinged room with its few benches pushed back against the walls, most of the floor was taken up by piles of cushions. Painted on the black enameled ceiling were accurate constellations to be studied thoughtfully.
Near his hand on a short metal stand was a silver tray holding three figs dipped in honey. Still ravenous, the Mongrel chewed thoughtfully on one of the figs without realizing it. He gazed around the room. It was not entirely devoted to the appetites of the flesh, for there was a cabinet from which a dozen scrolls protruded, as well musical instruments propped up in a corner and a globe of the Earth as it had then been explored.
Once he had assured himself no one else was in that chamber, Romal turned his full attention to the corpse of the Magistrate. His spirits sank as he realized once again he found himself in the desperate game through no wish of his own.
Sprawled out face up on a disarray of cushions, Satnefer hads both eyes and mouth open. The diadem had been knocked half off his head and remained at a hideously jaunty angle. Protruding up from the left side of his chest was the black leather hilt of a knife. Romal leaned closer. Yes, it was his. That notch on the blade from when he had hacked a pork bone was unmistakable. The Magistrate had been murdered with Romal's knife.
There was no sense in trying to hide or discard the weapon. The inevitable search of this building would find it. Nor was there any similar blade at hand which he might substitute in the wound. The trap had been sprung well and tight upon him.
Straightening up again, face set and grim, the Mongrel spotted his sword propped up against the wall nearby. He hastened to buckle the baldric up by his shoulder and adjusted the scabbard at his hip. Romal drew the sword and examined the blade, satisfying himself that it had not been tampered with. He kept the weapon in his grip as he moved in a circle around the chamber.
Nothing could be done for Satnefer, the man was beyond all pain or fear. Romal had to protect himself now. Whoever had stabbed the Magistrate obviously intended the Mongrel to be thought guilty. Leaving the sword nearby for him to find meant that the soldiers could attack him with impunity since he was armed.
Had the soldiers killed Satnefer? He didn't think so. As far as he had learned to judge men, he felt that they had seemed too at ease and too attentive to the Myrrwhan woman. Unless they were actors more skilled than any mummers, he thought they knew nothing of the murder at this point.
But that meant... Who would benefit from the death? The next in succession, who would be that unsavory Grand Advisor?
Romal moved quickly around the room, yanking aside tapestries and tapping on the wooden walls. There! A hollow echo unlike the other sounds. Only a close examination revealed the faintest line that indicated a crack. The Mongrel knew he had to act quickly. If anyone were to enter the chamber, he would be forced to fight his way out. Using the tip of his sword blade, he forced the partition to move open a fraction before pulling with his unnaturally strong fingers.
A panel tall enough to serve as a door swung open on an inner hinge. Romal squeezed into the darkness within, then decided to pull the panel closed again behind him. It might give him some time if pursuit came.
Down a narrow passage where he had to proceed sideways because his shoulders were too wide, the Mongrel trod silently. In the complete darkness, he ran unexpectedly into the end. Probing with his fingers, he found two hinges and pressed open the panel.
Romal stepped out into the corridor near the room he had been given. Yes, there was the bust of Eryasha in a nook. No one was in sight. Every second counted now. Romal opened the unbarred door and rushed through, coming face to face with both the slave girl Elantia and the aged Advisor Zandu.
IV.
Closing the door behind him, the Mongrel extended the sharp point of his sword at the old man. "Be still," he warned, "I feel the hour has come for me to depart your charming oasis."
Zandu gripped his staff with both gnarled hands. At that top of that length of ebony, the huge serpent head leered with open jaws. For eyes, two green gems glittered coldly in the candlelight. "You are ill-advised, my boy," laughed the Advisor. "The alleys of Thuthmek are not the safest to tread after dark."
"Feh! You and your ominous hints and ominous warnings," Romal growled. "I say I will be leaving." He looked at where Elantia had lowered herself to a cushioned stool but she lowered her eyes to avoid him. Even at arm's length, Romal could see she was trembling.
The elder smirked. "Why so eager to flee? Has some foul misdeed be done that you fear will be discovered? Is there blood on those foreign hands?"
"And how would you know of such a thing if you were not complicit in it?" demanded Romal. He raised the tip of his blade to the old man's bony chest and pressed lightly. "It seems to me that you are the hidden threat here."
"Hah. The light dawns even in your feeble mind," Zandu said. "You know not what you challenge. I am of the oldest Khebiran blood. I have studied forbidden secrets revealed by the Sulla Chun themselves on Ulgor before that island was cast into the sea. Here. Look closely at these jewels and grow wise."
Unafraid of the naked blade touching him, the ancient one extended his staff toward his foe. Despite his wariness, the Mongrel stared at the gleaming jade-colored stones set in the carved serpent head. Something was changing about them...
In a flash, the staff came to sudden violent life. It softened, wriggled and became snake longer than a man was tall. Thick coils tightened themselves around his torso. His sword arm was pinned against his side and the weapon fell from his grip. Romal's free left hand blurred up to seize the serpent's neck and he stopped its attack just before those fangs would have sunk into his throat.
A normal Human would have been killed almost instantly by that beast. Ribs would have broken and sternum collapsed beneath those closing coils. Strong as he was, even Romal felt his chest being compressed so it was impossible to take a full breath. It was only instinct that had made him take a deep breath and hold it as the monster had wrapped itself around him or he would be dead already. All his efforts went into keeping those fangs away from his neck.
"Only in the jungles of Khebir is the Sithgar found," gloated Zandu. "The only venomous constrictor in Nature and you will be slain by both its methods, ha HAH!"
Romal sidestepped and was within reach of the Grand Advisor. He could not free his right arm at all, and his left was entirely occupied with keeping those fangs away from him. The Mongrel growled deep in his chest with a rumbling sound no Human body could produce.
His legs were still unbound by the snake wrapped around his body and he bodyslammed the old sorcerer with enough force to throw Zandu up against the wall. Exerting all his strength in one convulsive effort, Romal twisted the serpent's head and forced those wet fangs into Zandu's neck. The elder gasped in terror as he realized he was going to die but he was already too weak to scream. His dying body slumped to the floor.
Keeping those fangs in the corpse's neck, Romal felt the coils slacken around him as the snake became distracted. He managed to drop to the tiled floor and pin one knee on the serpent's body down below its neck. With all his Troll-level strength, the Mongrel yanked upward and felt the vertebrae separate with a pop, the reptile's head nearly coming off entirely. The giant snake flung him away in its dying spasms, the coils lashing about to knock over furniture and missed the horrified Elantia by a hand's-breadth. Romal backpedaled out of reach and waited. The whipping tail smashed a table into fragments. It was several minutes before the creature grew still.
His chest heaving as he caught his breath, the Mongrel snatched up his sword where it had fallen. He took one quick step and interposed himself between the door and Elantia.
Something in his eyes frightened the Myrrwhan girl and she drew back. "Wait, wait, do not slay me, Romal."
"Why should I trust you?" he rasped. "You conspired with that damned warlock to kill me. Should I overlook that?"
"No. Believe me, Romal, you must listen! Zandu commanded and I had no choice but to obey. Anyone who defied him met cruel death. This horror of a snake, frozen into a staff, was the least of his spells."
She drew closer and became bolder as Romal lower his sword. Elantia pressed up against, feeling muscles hardened by a fierce life, and she gazed up into strange dark blue eyes with amber flecks. The Myrrwhan slave breathed against his face gently and waited to see his decision.
The soft yielding breasts against him stirred Romal. Watching that face close to his, the parted lips and the half-closed eyes, filled him with an urge he did not fully understand. He saw her begin to smile.
But he had been betrayed by Humans so many times in his short life. Nor had the other Races proved any more trustworthy. Even the so-holy Eldanarin had tried to use him as a weapon. He had come to expect nothing but deceit and deception wherever he went. He should strike this Human down and make his escape while he could.
She whispered, "Take me with you."
"What?" he said, drawing back from her.
"I will undoubtedly be slain once both the Magistrate and the Advisor are found dead. Next in line to rule this oasis is Captain Menfu of the Guard and he knows that both Satnefer and Zandu confided their schemes to me. My head will be cut off within the hour that their bodies are found."
"You wish to come with me...?" Romal said. "Across that desert? You would not survive."
"Better a slim chance than none," she said. "Once we reach the nearest towns, I will be safe enough. I am a skilled dancer and tumbler, and I can sing in several languages. If it comes to desperation, I am no stranger to the arts of love... as I will prove to you."
It was too tempting an offer for the young Mongrel to resist. Besides, how he could leave her here to be executed? "All right," he said. "But if you attempt to betray me, your head will fly from your neck in any case."
"Trust me," she said. "Here." She picked up a goatskin flask from the bed and sloshed its contents. "This is clean water. On this tray are dried fruits and meats. Wrap them in your cloak if you will."
As Romal made a tight bundle of the food and slung his tied-up cloak over one shoulder, he watched the redhaired slave tug a thin linen sheet off the bed and tie it around her narrow waist.
"We will need some protection from the sun," she explained gleefully.
"You have already given thought to this, I see."
"What slave does not daydream of escape?" she said. "Listen. Before we flee, there is a greater danger you must learn about. You know that lone travelers to this oasis never return to their homes. Their belongings are confiscated or sold in the markets."
"So you have said."
"It is so. Nor would Zandu or the Magistrate have slain you themselves. You would have been coaxed into taking a night walk through Thuthmek by yourself."
The Mongrel was growing irritated again. "I keep hearing hints and suggestions but nothing is clear. Why are the streets so dangerous after dark? Bandits? Cannibals from the South? Trolls?"
"No one dares say," the Myrrwhan told him. "I have never felt bold enough to find out for myself. Yet now we must venture out into the unlit streets of this cursed oasis. I want to be certain you are alert."
"Hah. As if I would not already be walking with my nerves raw? Escaping from this house of horrors, sure to be executed if caught. I think you can expect me to be wide awake, Elantia."
She stared down at the gruesome corpses of the decapitated serpent and the venom-blackened old man. "Whatever happens, know you have left the world a cleaner place by ending Zandu's reign. Come. Let us see if we can reach a window without being seen."
V.
Fortune favored them as they crept out into the corridor and listened to the measured steps of a soldier receding around a corner. Romal drew open the massive bolt that held the bronze shutters of a window and they both scrambled through the opening. Reaching behind him, the Mongrel pulled the shutters closed, although he had no way to refasten the lock. Perhaps a casual glance might not notice the undone bolt, but certainly a guard checking every door and window would immediately spot it.
Outside was an expanse of short-trimmed grass and ornamental hedges. No torches burned anywhere. The only specks of light came from a few windows in the building where soldiers stayed on duty or scribes remained awake to finish their tasks. Romal and Elantia raced up to the base of the stone wall which ran eight feet high around the entire property.
"We must find a ladder or a rope somewhere," the Myrrwhan slavegirl whispered. "Even a wagon upon which to stand would help."
"There is no time for that," the Mongrel replied. He expected an alarm to be sounded at any instant. When would a slave bring refreshment to the Magistrate? Or when would someone find the grisly bodies in his own chamber? "You said you were a tumbler. Be ready to hit the ground on the other side."
Before Elantia could protest or question him, Romal seized her under both arms and simply flung her up over the wall. As he had hoped, she reflexively drew herself into a ball and spun to roll upon the grass beyond the property. He himself took three running steps and leaped upward to easily clear the wall himself.
As he landed on both feet without stumbling next to the girl, it was clear he could have jumped even higher if need be. The Darthim had endowed him with the muscular prowess of a Fighting Troll but since he was only the size and weight of a Human, he could perform prodigious feats. Combined with the lightning reflexes of a Snake man, Romal's unique traits made him formidable indeed.
The Mongrel extended a hand to assist Elantia up. The Myrrwhan seemed slightly dazed. "I was not expecting THAT!" she breathed. "I thought the stories about you were just...well, stories."
Their eyes had adjusted to the illumination from a brilliant array of stars in a crystal clear sky. There was no moon that night. "The town is completely dark," he said after a moment. "I don't see even a candle glimmer under a door or through a shutter. What miserable hellhole is this?"
"Let us hope we do not pay a high price for learning the reason," she said. "Hurry. The stable is near the end of the main street."
Setting off at a quick lope just short of a run, they headed through the black and silent maze of narrow avenues. No one was to be seen. Romal had expected a beggar or two to be slumbering in a doorway, perhaps a drunkard sleeping fitfully in the alley next to a tavern after it had closed. But the streets were eerily deserted. It seemed that no matter how desperate a Thuthmek denizen might be, he still found a hiding place for the hours of darkness.
As they passed the two wells, Romal discerned that both had been covered with stone slabs too heavy for any one man to budge. Even here, at the very source of life-giving water that allowed Thuthmek to exist, no guard was in sight.
"Elantia," he said in low tones as they continued, "I realize I have never been to Myrrwha. Your homeland is not far north from the borders of Khebir. There is a short voyage across the Inner Sea."
"Are you offering to escort me to my country?" she asked. In her surprise, she slowed her pace to a walk.
"I would not be averse to that," the Mongrel answered. "A land of warrior women must be an interesting realm. After you are safely among your people, I could go on to Signarm."
"Why, Romal!" she laughed. "I do believe you are warming up to me."
They moved on briskly, staying silent after that exchange. A confusion that was new to him filled Romal's thoughts so that he found it difficult to concentrate. A long journey with this girl beside him...
"There it is," Elantia told him, slowing her pace. "The owner and his wife sleep in that cottage behind the stable itself."
"There will be an uproar when we steal a horse," he said, judging how to best approach the building. "It can't be helped. We will have to put on the reins and a blanket and ride away as quickly as we can. Are you game?"
"Oh, freedom is so near I can almost taste it," she told him, rubbing his broad back affectionately in the gloom. "Hasten! Let's leave this cursed place far behind us."
Romal froze motionless. What was that sound behind him? A scraping against the dust? He felt cold fear run like ice water down his spine as he whipped his sword free and wheeled about. Darker even than the darkness around them, monstrous shapes reared up near enough to be touched.
VI.
These serpents were much larger than the one that Zandu had conjured earlier. A wicked wedge-shaped opened its fanged mouth and lunged at Romal. Every bit as quick, the Mongrel hopped sideways and raised his sword high to bring it down in an iron arc which sliced entirely through the thick scaled neck. In a gout of dark blood, the severed head bounced once on the hard-packed dirt. The body convulsed wildly and the tail whipped around to smack Romal squarely in the face.
Taken off-balance as he had been straightening after his slash, the Mongrel reeled backward. He was dazed by the brutal impact and blood came from his nose, but he managed to keep his footing. From lessons taught by the tyrannical instructors on Maroch, he whirled his sword in a figure eight before him while he regained his senses.
He was only stunned for a few seconds but that was enough.
In the starlight, Romal saw with horror that Elantia had almost disappeared within the massive coils of the monster snake. She did not scream even once but he heard the brittle crackle of bones breaking. The Mongrel lunged at the serpent, found a section of its length exposed and lopped it off. Like its comrade, the venomous constrictor erupted into violent seizures that sent its bleeding body flailing about. The flat head rose up with its maw wide open and Romal drove his sword point first into that mouth to split the creature's skull from within.
Letting go of his weapon, the Mongrel dropped to his knees and tried to free Elantia from the long cold body wrapped around her. She was not responsive. Romal got her away from the monster and felt how limp she was, how her arms and legs were bent the wrong way. He did not call her name but simply pressed two fingers to the underside of her jaw. No pulse was to be found.
Romal stretched her out to feel for a heartbeat and found her rib cage had collapsed. That serpent had driven broken bone into her heart and lungs. The Mongrel stood up. Hot salty blood was trickling down into his mouth and he wiped at his broken nose with the back of a hand.
Everything seemed to be far away. The silence of the shut-down town was broken by yelling in the distance. Romal turned his head and saw the flicker of torches flaring up at the Magistrate's mansion at the other end of the oasis. The bodies of Satnefer and Zandu had been found. A search by armed soldiers was only a short time away.
It did not seem important. Romal felt numb. He stumbled toward the barred door of the stable and opened it. Inside a dozen horses stirred and whinnied in their individual stalls. Hanging on one wall were bits and reigns, with a pile of woven blankets by the door.
The Mongrel chose the horse that had remained calmest. In the darkness, he placed the blanket on its back and fastened the bits in its mouth. The horse seemed to respond well. Romal opened the stall and led the beast outside. He had a fresh mount, a good amount of food and water. Certainly he was better prepared than when he had staggered half-alive into this damned place.
Leaping up easily onto the horse's back, he urged it to the north, past the end of the street where the dry dirt was replaced by sand. It took a great effort not to look back where Elantia's body lay but he could not bury her nor could he pause to reflect in memoriam. The hunt would be on in a few minutes.
Under brilliant starshine far from the lights of any city, Romal rode at an easy trot out into the desert. He could tell by the stars which direction led to the nearest town. In his chest, a terrible tightness made him worry that he had been injured somehow but he knew he had not been physically harmed. He was suffering the pangs of emotion he had never known before.
2/5/2018
12/3-12/4/1212 DR
I.
His horse had died four days earlier. Piece by piece, Romal had been forced to discard the gear he had tried to carry across the desert. Under the vicious Khebir sun, he had trudged toward the horizon without hope, only stubborn determination. Even his unnatural strength and endurance were reaching their limits.
Created by the Darthan Kjes using forbidden arts, Romal the Mongrel seemed to be a normal Human man barely twenty years old, with shaggy black hair and dark blue eyes under heavy brows. He was over six feet in height and powerfully built but even that was still deceptive. In his body was the full strength of a Fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man, as well as traits from the other Seven Races. But he had limits like all flesh and blood, and he was reaching them.
Romal had tried to sleep during the worst of the daytime heat, digging a pit in the sand and covering himself with his cloak. At night, the Khebir desert cooled slightly but not enough. Today he had felt weakened so much that he had spurred himself in a half-unconscious effort to reach some sort of refuge.
He still wore his boots, black pants and blue tunic, with the Signarm-made sword hanging from its baldric. Sheathed at his belt was the wide-bladed knife that was meant to be more tool than weapon. The yellow cloak had been pulled up over his head to provide what shade it could. His lips were so swollen and cracked that he could not close his mouth. The sweat that had been trickling in his eyes had stopped, which was a bad sign indeed.
The sun was low behind him. His shadow stretched out black and distorted over the unmeasured miles of hot sand in front. The Mongrel was no longer fully aware of why he still fought to live. It was deep in his nature to never yield. Ahead of him was another in the endless series of dunes and he forced his aching body to keep carrying him forward. As he crested the dune, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to his knees.
Romal realized death was upon him. Such a short life. He had only escaped from Maroch and set out into the world a year earlier, and now his bones would whiten where no one was likely to ever find them. Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped his burning eyes with the back of one hand. Romal took a deep shuddering breath as unexpected hope returned.
Before him, in a shallow valley, were trees and grass and a town of stone buildings. He could see people and camels walking about. For one instant, the Mongrel thought he must be delirious and only seeing what he wanted to see. It didn't matter. He wanted to live. Romal drew on final resources he hadn't known he possessed. He rose again but fell, tumbling down the sand toward the town.
When he reached level ground, where sand gave way to dry dirt, Romal fought his way back up to his feet again. He stood with feet braced well apart, head spinning, as a man approached him.
The townsman was a typical Khebiran, short and lean and dark, with glossy straight black hair. He wore a loose white garment of thin cotton that reached to his ankles and he had a gourd slung from one shoulder.
When he saw that gourd, Romal almost wept with joy. He croaked "Water?" through ragged lips.
Stepping closer, the Khebiran sneered. "What do you have to offer in exchange, foreigner?"
Romal's hand darted out to close around the man's throat like the deadly jaws of a crocodile. Even weakened near death, that grip was painfully tight. As the Khebiran gasped and wriggled ineffectually to break free, the Mongrel seized the gourd and popped out its cork with a thumb. The water inside was lukewarm and smelled of vinegar but he had never tasted anything better. Even in his extremity, Romal remembered to sip slowly and not gulp down the entire contents as he wanted to.
Other townspeople had drawn near, including several women with their hair drawn up in colorful turbans, half-naked children peering out from behind them. None seemed eager to interfere. Romal's stern face and his greater size, not to mention the sword at his left hip, deterred them. When the gourd was empty, the Mongrel felt his head clear a little. He released the Khebiran who had started to turn purple in the face.
"Is this how you welcome travelers?" the Mongrel demanded.
II.
A middle-aged woman approached him, bearing a wooden bucket by its handles. She held it out to him. "Here. Do not drink more for a little while, or you will retch. Wash with this instead."
The Mongrel gratefully rubbed the water on his hands and arms, swabbed some across his face and neck. Then he bent suddenly and dunked his head into the bucket. Accumulated sweat and grime were washed off. He raised his head, Romal swept back his hair with both hands. And, as he did so, he revealed his ears.
This was how Romal visibly differed from mortal Men. His ears rose to distinct points, like those of the Darthim and Eldanarin. The crowd had been growing and it muttered uneasily at the sight. Before anyone could speak, a man on a black horse forced his way through the gathering.
Wearing a breastplate and simple helmet of bronze over a short tunic instead of the long robes, this man bore a wide-bladed bronze sword and a dagger nearly as long in his girdle. He had no saddle, but sat on a woven blanket and gripped the sides of his mount with his knees. "Stranger," he intoned, "Know that you are entering Thuthmek. This oasis is under fealty to Prince Yathrib, Lord of All Khebir. Will you announce yourself?"
Feeling stronger, Romal straightened himself and placed his hand on his swordhilt. "I am Romal, called by some the Mongrel. I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, belonging nowhere. I come to you from the desert and ask only the basic courtesy extended by civilized people to strangers."
"Well spoken. Know that we are not all like that miserly merchant. He would cling to a moneysack even if it meant drowning. I am Menfu, a captain in the service of our magistrate Satnefer. Follow me." Without looking back, the soldier wheeled his horse about and rode off at a measured pace. Romal thanked the woman who had offered him the bucket of water and followed.
Although he had regained much of his strength, the Mongrel still was unsteady on his feet. Pride made him walk behind the black horse as if he had just risen from a good night's sleep. They passed through Tuthmek slowly, giving Romal ample time to take in the sights. Buildings made of stone slabs or dried clay bricks flanked a wide main avenue. None were over two stories high. There was a marketplace in the center of the town, where booths under striped awnings sold clothing or food or personal items like combs or cutlery.
The people moving about their business paused as they spotted the mounted soldier followed by an armed stronger. But they quickly resumed their activities in a nervous manner. Not all were Khebirans, either. A number of black-skinned Danarakans with their gold ornaments and short stabbing spears browsed at the stalls. There was even a yellow-bearded Skandoran, his skin deeply burned by exposure to the desert sun. Several beggars in dirty rags could be seen holding out their bowls for coins.
Two stone wells stood twenty feet across, topped with a wooden cover and a winch on a horizontal bar. Each well had a soldier standing vigil near it, arms folded and staying alert. Romal stepped up next to the horse and quietly asked, "How far is it to the nearest city?"
"Five days by horse or camel, if one brings enough provisions," Menfu answered easily enough. "We are near the end of a popular trade route. Caravans stop here often to rest and restock, and they pay well for the privilege."
"I see," said Romal. "It was mere chance that I came upon your town. I had no idea that Tuthmek was here."
"Expect our magistrate to be asking you many questions," the soldier told him. At the end of the main street was a formidable structure of white stone, roofed with gilded tiles. Two of the armored soldiers stood on either side of a massive wooden door, watching the approach of Menfu and the Mongrel with open suspicion.
"Hail to my brothers," called out Menfu. "Behold, a stranger has wandered in from the deadly sands. I believe our noble Satnefer will wish to speak with him."
"As you wish, Captain Menfu," said one of the soldiers. They pulled on massive bronze rings to slowly open the doors. Waiting within was an elderly man with a shaven head, leaning on an ebony staff more than six feet long and thick as a man's wrist. Over his linen gown, the old man wore a mantle across his shoulders inlaid with golden threads.
"Ah, Grand Advisor Zandu," said Menfu as he dismounted and handed the reins to a soldier. "Will you escort us into the presence?"
"That I will," replied the elder. He raised his staff, showing it was topped by a carved animal head which resembled a great serpent with long upper fangs showing in a gaping maw, The Grand Advisor stamped that staff twice on the tiled floor and turned to shamble into the interior of the building.
They passed through a high-ceiling reception room under a glass skylight, down a corridor flanked by open doors showing scribes at work with parchment and quill, through a final door marked with the rearing snake symbol of Khebir. Pausing, Zandu rapped sharply three times with his staff on that door before opening it.
Romal had not been sure what to expect. He entered a good-sized chamber that was so filled with benches and three-legged stools with somber scribes upon them as to seem oppressively crowded. Behind a table laden with scrolls and maps sat a fat man in a linen robe which was detailed with the rearing snake image. He wore, not a crown, but a thin bronze diadem shaped like plaited palm leaves. Like the Advisor and the scribes, his head had been shaved and Romal decided this was a mark of the local government.
Even though he still felt weaker than usual and badly wanted a meal, the Mongrel gave this Magistrate credit for doing his job. The man was pointing out items he disagreed with on some of the documents and listening to how the scribes made their counter-arguments. When he noticed Romal in the doorway, the fat man fixed eyes upon him that were shrewd and penetrating. Satnefer was no fool living in luxury while peasants starved to support him.
"Even in this remote outpost, we have heard tales of the Seven-In-One. Like the Silver Skull and Karina, though, it was thought you were but a figure from campfire tales," the Magistrate said.
"I am what I am," Romal answered. "You have my gratitude for welcoming me graciously into Thuthmek."
Getting a better look at his visitor, Satnnefer said, "Your skin is burnt and your lips raw. Zandu, have a page bring this man to a guest chamber. After he has been tended to, let him come to me for counsel. I think he will have much to tell me."
III.
Romal recovered more quickly than any expected. Black-skinned Danarakan slaves laved his body with warm soapy water and then rubbed healing ointments where his skin was broken and torn. It was strange to see the muscular hard-faced men be so gentle when treating him but they seemed genuinely caring. The Mongrel was given a jug of red wine diluted with water, dishes of sliced melon and dried figs and green olives. Then came a modest amount of roasted goat garnished with peppers.
The slaves watched him solicitously, warning him to eat slowly and to sip the wine a mouthful at a time. When he finished the meal without getting sick, they seemed pleased.
"You have treated me well, and I will remember that," the Mongrel said. He had been naked except for a white apron over his groin, but now his clothes were returned to him. They had been scrubbed, dried over hot stones and patched where worn out.
He still was not entirely sure if he could trust these people. But then he had little inclination to trust any Race, whether Human or Darthim or Eldanarin. He was the only living being who was not fully kin somewhere.
Romal dressed himself before the Danarakans could offer to help. He fastened the Trom-metal band around his brow, brushing his hair back to cover his ears. As he felt the weight of the yellow cloak hang from his shoulders, he felt truly himself again for the first time in a week.
"I would speak with your Magistrate if he is ready," Romal said. The Danarakans were picking up empty plates and bowls, gathering wet towels and basins of soapy water. One of them went to the door of the bedchamber and gestured out into the hall.
"Our duties call us elsewhere, honored one," one of the slaves explained. "Elantia will escort you to the presence." As the three black men left the room, a young girl in her teens slipped past them and bowed before Romal.
She was clearly not a native Khebiran. Eight inches over five feet tall, slim and displaying long elegant legs, she had a thick mane of hair of a gorgeous auburn hue and bright green eyes in a heart-shaped face. Elantia wore one of the loose white linen robes that seemed almost universal in this oasis, but hers was belted at her narrow waist to emphasis her sleek curves.
Taking in the sight of her, Romal felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest that was akin to fear. He was young after all, raised by the cold malicious Darthim, and he as yet had not experienced the company of women to any extent. Thumbs tucked into his belt, he took a breath and managed, "I daresay you have a tale to tell."
"Of how I ended up here, in vile service no better off than those poor black men? Oh yes, my lord. I was a child when Prince Yathrib claimed me after a battle with the Myrrwhans. We are warrior women, skilled and courageous as any who walk this world. If I had been a year or two older, trained in fighting arts...!"
She broke off abruptly. Folding her hands in front of her, Elantia bowed deeply from the waist. "Forgive me, my lord. It is not for me to speak of such things. I have been waiting to escort you to the Magistrate's chambers. Will you follow me?"
Romal caught himself before he could answer, 'Anywhere.' He said "Yes" instead and went with her out in a stone-walled corridor lit by tall candles in sconces fastened at head level. Romal noticed that shutters had been fastened over the unglassed windows... not wooden shutters, but substantial slabs of bronze held fast by bolts shot with thick cylinders.
The Mongrel frowned. Why such extreme measures? He had not seen anything in the town that merited defenses like that. Was there danger of fierce nomads raiding from the desert? This one detail reminded him how fortified the Magistrate's building was, with its high walls topped with broken ceramic pieces.
As they walked at a leisurely pace, the Myrrwhan slave girl pressed close to Romal. She lifted her face and whispered in a tone that would not be heard at arm's length, "Travelers have disappeared after arriving here. Solitary men ride into Thuthmek and are said to have to moved on... but in truth they were never seen again. Relatives or friends sometimes come here asking for them, only to be met with unhelpful shrugs."
Romal had slowed even more. He bent his head and said, "It's a dangerous world. I have seen how the Khebir desert can claim the lives of any who enter it..."
"No!" she snapped. "Everything the traveler owned was sold in a day or two in the marketplace. Horse, clothing, weapons, all sold. I do not believe that a visitor to this cursed oasis walked away naked into the wilderness."
The Mongrel watched her, trying to keep his face expressionless but not doing very well. There was some delicate floral scent in her hair that drew him closer. He could not help but think that the way she raised her face left her inviting a kiss.
But he clenched his hands and scowled. No one in this world could he trust, neither man nor woman. He was feared and loathed as a freak with no place in the natural order. He possessed traits and strengths of all Seven Races, yet was welcomed by none. He had to bear that in mind always.
Seeing his skepticism, Elantia fumed. "Why do I trouble myself? What are you to me? Let yourself meet the same awful doom as other solitary travelers, it matters not to me."
"I thank you for your concern," the Mongrel retorted.
The Myrrwhan girl led him around another corner and down one more corridor. Niches in the walls held stone busts of Khebir deities and a frieze recounting the warlike exploits of Prince Yathrib. At the end of the hall was a massive ebony door inlaid with gold strips, and flanking it were two more of the bronze-armored guards.
"We have come as bidden," the redhaired slave announced as she held up an open palm in salute.
One of the soldiers let an amiable smile slip past his professional pokerface. "And welcome company you always are, Elantia. Still, we were instructed to admit only the outlander for the moment." He gripped a heavy gilded knocker crafted in the shape of a lion's head and pulled the door outward despite its resistance. As Romal stepped through the guards closed the door behind him with a decisive click.
A waft of air heavy with the tang of hashish greeted the Mongrel. In a low-ceilinged room with its few benches pushed back against the walls, most of the floor was taken up by piles of cushions. Painted on the black enameled ceiling were accurate constellations to be studied thoughtfully.
Near his hand on a short metal stand was a silver tray holding three figs dipped in honey. Still ravenous, the Mongrel chewed thoughtfully on one of the figs without realizing it. He gazed around the room. It was not entirely devoted to the appetites of the flesh, for there was a cabinet from which a dozen scrolls protruded, as well musical instruments propped up in a corner and a globe of the Earth as it had then been explored.
Once he had assured himself no one else was in that chamber, Romal turned his full attention to the corpse of the Magistrate. His spirits sank as he realized once again he found himself in the desperate game through no wish of his own.
Sprawled out face up on a disarray of cushions, Satnefer hads both eyes and mouth open. The diadem had been knocked half off his head and remained at a hideously jaunty angle. Protruding up from the left side of his chest was the black leather hilt of a knife. Romal leaned closer. Yes, it was his. That notch on the blade from when he had hacked a pork bone was unmistakable. The Magistrate had been murdered with Romal's knife.
There was no sense in trying to hide or discard the weapon. The inevitable search of this building would find it. Nor was there any similar blade at hand which he might substitute in the wound. The trap had been sprung well and tight upon him.
Straightening up again, face set and grim, the Mongrel spotted his sword propped up against the wall nearby. He hastened to buckle the baldric up by his shoulder and adjusted the scabbard at his hip. Romal drew the sword and examined the blade, satisfying himself that it had not been tampered with. He kept the weapon in his grip as he moved in a circle around the chamber.
Nothing could be done for Satnefer, the man was beyond all pain or fear. Romal had to protect himself now. Whoever had stabbed the Magistrate obviously intended the Mongrel to be thought guilty. Leaving the sword nearby for him to find meant that the soldiers could attack him with impunity since he was armed.
Had the soldiers killed Satnefer? He didn't think so. As far as he had learned to judge men, he felt that they had seemed too at ease and too attentive to the Myrrwhan woman. Unless they were actors more skilled than any mummers, he thought they knew nothing of the murder at this point.
But that meant... Who would benefit from the death? The next in succession, who would be that unsavory Grand Advisor?
Romal moved quickly around the room, yanking aside tapestries and tapping on the wooden walls. There! A hollow echo unlike the other sounds. Only a close examination revealed the faintest line that indicated a crack. The Mongrel knew he had to act quickly. If anyone were to enter the chamber, he would be forced to fight his way out. Using the tip of his sword blade, he forced the partition to move open a fraction before pulling with his unnaturally strong fingers.
A panel tall enough to serve as a door swung open on an inner hinge. Romal squeezed into the darkness within, then decided to pull the panel closed again behind him. It might give him some time if pursuit came.
Down a narrow passage where he had to proceed sideways because his shoulders were too wide, the Mongrel trod silently. In the complete darkness, he ran unexpectedly into the end. Probing with his fingers, he found two hinges and pressed open the panel.
Romal stepped out into the corridor near the room he had been given. Yes, there was the bust of Eryasha in a nook. No one was in sight. Every second counted now. Romal opened the unbarred door and rushed through, coming face to face with both the slave girl Elantia and the aged Advisor Zandu.
IV.
Closing the door behind him, the Mongrel extended the sharp point of his sword at the old man. "Be still," he warned, "I feel the hour has come for me to depart your charming oasis."
Zandu gripped his staff with both gnarled hands. At that top of that length of ebony, the huge serpent head leered with open jaws. For eyes, two green gems glittered coldly in the candlelight. "You are ill-advised, my boy," laughed the Advisor. "The alleys of Thuthmek are not the safest to tread after dark."
"Feh! You and your ominous hints and ominous warnings," Romal growled. "I say I will be leaving." He looked at where Elantia had lowered herself to a cushioned stool but she lowered her eyes to avoid him. Even at arm's length, Romal could see she was trembling.
The elder smirked. "Why so eager to flee? Has some foul misdeed be done that you fear will be discovered? Is there blood on those foreign hands?"
"And how would you know of such a thing if you were not complicit in it?" demanded Romal. He raised the tip of his blade to the old man's bony chest and pressed lightly. "It seems to me that you are the hidden threat here."
"Hah. The light dawns even in your feeble mind," Zandu said. "You know not what you challenge. I am of the oldest Khebiran blood. I have studied forbidden secrets revealed by the Sulla Chun themselves on Ulgor before that island was cast into the sea. Here. Look closely at these jewels and grow wise."
Unafraid of the naked blade touching him, the ancient one extended his staff toward his foe. Despite his wariness, the Mongrel stared at the gleaming jade-colored stones set in the carved serpent head. Something was changing about them...
In a flash, the staff came to sudden violent life. It softened, wriggled and became snake longer than a man was tall. Thick coils tightened themselves around his torso. His sword arm was pinned against his side and the weapon fell from his grip. Romal's free left hand blurred up to seize the serpent's neck and he stopped its attack just before those fangs would have sunk into his throat.
A normal Human would have been killed almost instantly by that beast. Ribs would have broken and sternum collapsed beneath those closing coils. Strong as he was, even Romal felt his chest being compressed so it was impossible to take a full breath. It was only instinct that had made him take a deep breath and hold it as the monster had wrapped itself around him or he would be dead already. All his efforts went into keeping those fangs away from his neck.
"Only in the jungles of Khebir is the Sithgar found," gloated Zandu. "The only venomous constrictor in Nature and you will be slain by both its methods, ha HAH!"
Romal sidestepped and was within reach of the Grand Advisor. He could not free his right arm at all, and his left was entirely occupied with keeping those fangs away from him. The Mongrel growled deep in his chest with a rumbling sound no Human body could produce.
His legs were still unbound by the snake wrapped around his body and he bodyslammed the old sorcerer with enough force to throw Zandu up against the wall. Exerting all his strength in one convulsive effort, Romal twisted the serpent's head and forced those wet fangs into Zandu's neck. The elder gasped in terror as he realized he was going to die but he was already too weak to scream. His dying body slumped to the floor.
Keeping those fangs in the corpse's neck, Romal felt the coils slacken around him as the snake became distracted. He managed to drop to the tiled floor and pin one knee on the serpent's body down below its neck. With all his Troll-level strength, the Mongrel yanked upward and felt the vertebrae separate with a pop, the reptile's head nearly coming off entirely. The giant snake flung him away in its dying spasms, the coils lashing about to knock over furniture and missed the horrified Elantia by a hand's-breadth. Romal backpedaled out of reach and waited. The whipping tail smashed a table into fragments. It was several minutes before the creature grew still.
His chest heaving as he caught his breath, the Mongrel snatched up his sword where it had fallen. He took one quick step and interposed himself between the door and Elantia.
Something in his eyes frightened the Myrrwhan girl and she drew back. "Wait, wait, do not slay me, Romal."
"Why should I trust you?" he rasped. "You conspired with that damned warlock to kill me. Should I overlook that?"
"No. Believe me, Romal, you must listen! Zandu commanded and I had no choice but to obey. Anyone who defied him met cruel death. This horror of a snake, frozen into a staff, was the least of his spells."
She drew closer and became bolder as Romal lower his sword. Elantia pressed up against, feeling muscles hardened by a fierce life, and she gazed up into strange dark blue eyes with amber flecks. The Myrrwhan slave breathed against his face gently and waited to see his decision.
The soft yielding breasts against him stirred Romal. Watching that face close to his, the parted lips and the half-closed eyes, filled him with an urge he did not fully understand. He saw her begin to smile.
But he had been betrayed by Humans so many times in his short life. Nor had the other Races proved any more trustworthy. Even the so-holy Eldanarin had tried to use him as a weapon. He had come to expect nothing but deceit and deception wherever he went. He should strike this Human down and make his escape while he could.
She whispered, "Take me with you."
"What?" he said, drawing back from her.
"I will undoubtedly be slain once both the Magistrate and the Advisor are found dead. Next in line to rule this oasis is Captain Menfu of the Guard and he knows that both Satnefer and Zandu confided their schemes to me. My head will be cut off within the hour that their bodies are found."
"You wish to come with me...?" Romal said. "Across that desert? You would not survive."
"Better a slim chance than none," she said. "Once we reach the nearest towns, I will be safe enough. I am a skilled dancer and tumbler, and I can sing in several languages. If it comes to desperation, I am no stranger to the arts of love... as I will prove to you."
It was too tempting an offer for the young Mongrel to resist. Besides, how he could leave her here to be executed? "All right," he said. "But if you attempt to betray me, your head will fly from your neck in any case."
"Trust me," she said. "Here." She picked up a goatskin flask from the bed and sloshed its contents. "This is clean water. On this tray are dried fruits and meats. Wrap them in your cloak if you will."
As Romal made a tight bundle of the food and slung his tied-up cloak over one shoulder, he watched the redhaired slave tug a thin linen sheet off the bed and tie it around her narrow waist.
"We will need some protection from the sun," she explained gleefully.
"You have already given thought to this, I see."
"What slave does not daydream of escape?" she said. "Listen. Before we flee, there is a greater danger you must learn about. You know that lone travelers to this oasis never return to their homes. Their belongings are confiscated or sold in the markets."
"So you have said."
"It is so. Nor would Zandu or the Magistrate have slain you themselves. You would have been coaxed into taking a night walk through Thuthmek by yourself."
The Mongrel was growing irritated again. "I keep hearing hints and suggestions but nothing is clear. Why are the streets so dangerous after dark? Bandits? Cannibals from the South? Trolls?"
"No one dares say," the Myrrwhan told him. "I have never felt bold enough to find out for myself. Yet now we must venture out into the unlit streets of this cursed oasis. I want to be certain you are alert."
"Hah. As if I would not already be walking with my nerves raw? Escaping from this house of horrors, sure to be executed if caught. I think you can expect me to be wide awake, Elantia."
She stared down at the gruesome corpses of the decapitated serpent and the venom-blackened old man. "Whatever happens, know you have left the world a cleaner place by ending Zandu's reign. Come. Let us see if we can reach a window without being seen."
V.
Fortune favored them as they crept out into the corridor and listened to the measured steps of a soldier receding around a corner. Romal drew open the massive bolt that held the bronze shutters of a window and they both scrambled through the opening. Reaching behind him, the Mongrel pulled the shutters closed, although he had no way to refasten the lock. Perhaps a casual glance might not notice the undone bolt, but certainly a guard checking every door and window would immediately spot it.
Outside was an expanse of short-trimmed grass and ornamental hedges. No torches burned anywhere. The only specks of light came from a few windows in the building where soldiers stayed on duty or scribes remained awake to finish their tasks. Romal and Elantia raced up to the base of the stone wall which ran eight feet high around the entire property.
"We must find a ladder or a rope somewhere," the Myrrwhan slavegirl whispered. "Even a wagon upon which to stand would help."
"There is no time for that," the Mongrel replied. He expected an alarm to be sounded at any instant. When would a slave bring refreshment to the Magistrate? Or when would someone find the grisly bodies in his own chamber? "You said you were a tumbler. Be ready to hit the ground on the other side."
Before Elantia could protest or question him, Romal seized her under both arms and simply flung her up over the wall. As he had hoped, she reflexively drew herself into a ball and spun to roll upon the grass beyond the property. He himself took three running steps and leaped upward to easily clear the wall himself.
As he landed on both feet without stumbling next to the girl, it was clear he could have jumped even higher if need be. The Darthim had endowed him with the muscular prowess of a Fighting Troll but since he was only the size and weight of a Human, he could perform prodigious feats. Combined with the lightning reflexes of a Snake man, Romal's unique traits made him formidable indeed.
The Mongrel extended a hand to assist Elantia up. The Myrrwhan seemed slightly dazed. "I was not expecting THAT!" she breathed. "I thought the stories about you were just...well, stories."
Their eyes had adjusted to the illumination from a brilliant array of stars in a crystal clear sky. There was no moon that night. "The town is completely dark," he said after a moment. "I don't see even a candle glimmer under a door or through a shutter. What miserable hellhole is this?"
"Let us hope we do not pay a high price for learning the reason," she said. "Hurry. The stable is near the end of the main street."
Setting off at a quick lope just short of a run, they headed through the black and silent maze of narrow avenues. No one was to be seen. Romal had expected a beggar or two to be slumbering in a doorway, perhaps a drunkard sleeping fitfully in the alley next to a tavern after it had closed. But the streets were eerily deserted. It seemed that no matter how desperate a Thuthmek denizen might be, he still found a hiding place for the hours of darkness.
As they passed the two wells, Romal discerned that both had been covered with stone slabs too heavy for any one man to budge. Even here, at the very source of life-giving water that allowed Thuthmek to exist, no guard was in sight.
"Elantia," he said in low tones as they continued, "I realize I have never been to Myrrwha. Your homeland is not far north from the borders of Khebir. There is a short voyage across the Inner Sea."
"Are you offering to escort me to my country?" she asked. In her surprise, she slowed her pace to a walk.
"I would not be averse to that," the Mongrel answered. "A land of warrior women must be an interesting realm. After you are safely among your people, I could go on to Signarm."
"Why, Romal!" she laughed. "I do believe you are warming up to me."
They moved on briskly, staying silent after that exchange. A confusion that was new to him filled Romal's thoughts so that he found it difficult to concentrate. A long journey with this girl beside him...
"There it is," Elantia told him, slowing her pace. "The owner and his wife sleep in that cottage behind the stable itself."
"There will be an uproar when we steal a horse," he said, judging how to best approach the building. "It can't be helped. We will have to put on the reins and a blanket and ride away as quickly as we can. Are you game?"
"Oh, freedom is so near I can almost taste it," she told him, rubbing his broad back affectionately in the gloom. "Hasten! Let's leave this cursed place far behind us."
Romal froze motionless. What was that sound behind him? A scraping against the dust? He felt cold fear run like ice water down his spine as he whipped his sword free and wheeled about. Darker even than the darkness around them, monstrous shapes reared up near enough to be touched.
VI.
These serpents were much larger than the one that Zandu had conjured earlier. A wicked wedge-shaped opened its fanged mouth and lunged at Romal. Every bit as quick, the Mongrel hopped sideways and raised his sword high to bring it down in an iron arc which sliced entirely through the thick scaled neck. In a gout of dark blood, the severed head bounced once on the hard-packed dirt. The body convulsed wildly and the tail whipped around to smack Romal squarely in the face.
Taken off-balance as he had been straightening after his slash, the Mongrel reeled backward. He was dazed by the brutal impact and blood came from his nose, but he managed to keep his footing. From lessons taught by the tyrannical instructors on Maroch, he whirled his sword in a figure eight before him while he regained his senses.
He was only stunned for a few seconds but that was enough.
In the starlight, Romal saw with horror that Elantia had almost disappeared within the massive coils of the monster snake. She did not scream even once but he heard the brittle crackle of bones breaking. The Mongrel lunged at the serpent, found a section of its length exposed and lopped it off. Like its comrade, the venomous constrictor erupted into violent seizures that sent its bleeding body flailing about. The flat head rose up with its maw wide open and Romal drove his sword point first into that mouth to split the creature's skull from within.
Letting go of his weapon, the Mongrel dropped to his knees and tried to free Elantia from the long cold body wrapped around her. She was not responsive. Romal got her away from the monster and felt how limp she was, how her arms and legs were bent the wrong way. He did not call her name but simply pressed two fingers to the underside of her jaw. No pulse was to be found.
Romal stretched her out to feel for a heartbeat and found her rib cage had collapsed. That serpent had driven broken bone into her heart and lungs. The Mongrel stood up. Hot salty blood was trickling down into his mouth and he wiped at his broken nose with the back of a hand.
Everything seemed to be far away. The silence of the shut-down town was broken by yelling in the distance. Romal turned his head and saw the flicker of torches flaring up at the Magistrate's mansion at the other end of the oasis. The bodies of Satnefer and Zandu had been found. A search by armed soldiers was only a short time away.
It did not seem important. Romal felt numb. He stumbled toward the barred door of the stable and opened it. Inside a dozen horses stirred and whinnied in their individual stalls. Hanging on one wall were bits and reigns, with a pile of woven blankets by the door.
The Mongrel chose the horse that had remained calmest. In the darkness, he placed the blanket on its back and fastened the bits in its mouth. The horse seemed to respond well. Romal opened the stall and led the beast outside. He had a fresh mount, a good amount of food and water. Certainly he was better prepared than when he had staggered half-alive into this damned place.
Leaping up easily onto the horse's back, he urged it to the north, past the end of the street where the dry dirt was replaced by sand. It took a great effort not to look back where Elantia's body lay but he could not bury her nor could he pause to reflect in memoriam. The hunt would be on in a few minutes.
Under brilliant starshine far from the lights of any city, Romal rode at an easy trot out into the desert. He could tell by the stars which direction led to the nearest town. In his chest, a terrible tightness made him worry that he had been injured somehow but he knew he had not been physically harmed. He was suffering the pangs of emotion he had never known before.
2/5/2018
