Weirdbook #43. Darrell Schweitzer

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СКАЧАТЬ the masked ones who serve Shangzara, and by their ruthless skill the wizard rules this province. Six times has war come to our lands during my lifetime, six times have the soldiers of Huan-gao and Huan-zuo matched blades in the sorrowfields, and six times sixty men have died. The last of these wars nearly destroyed Huan-gao, which lives now under the subjugation of Sangzara and the Zo swordsmen.”

      “I see,” said Magtone. “You’ve come to slay the wizard and his champion for the good of your people. You are a hero, Shango of Huan-gao.”

      “No,” Shango said. “That is not why I march toward death.”

      “Well, if you’re not doing it for your people, then you must be doing it for yourself.”

      “You are unusually perceptive, Poet.”

      “You wear simple robes, affect a martial demeanor,” Magtone examined Shango with shimmering eyes. “You travel in humble style, with no need of comfort. You wear no jewels or golden rings. It is not treasure you seek…so it must be revenge.”

      Shango said nothing.

      “If you wish to travel with me, we leave at dawn’s light,” he said. “Get some sleep.” He rolled into the grass and rested his head on a mossy root, his back toward Magtone. The wine had made him terribly sleepy. He clutched the sheathed sword to his breast like a lover and closed his eyes. He could not speak to the stranger of what he had lost. Not here in the Forest of Heavenly Streams, where spirits often listened to mens’ conversations and took the forms of dead loved ones.

      Magtone curled up with his back to Shango, wrapping the carpet about himself like a blanket. “I’m told there is a fine library in Huan-zuo,” he said.

      “There was one in Huan-gao as well,” Shango said. “But not anymore.”

      There had been so many wonderful things in Huan-gao.

      So few of them were left now.

      Despite his request to travel with Shango, the stranger was nowhere to be found when dawn broke. Shango stamped out the remains of his campfire and followed the forest trail toward Huan-zuo. Singing birds filled the trees, and the wind brought cherry blossoms like tiny fairies dancing through sunbeams.

      Shango walked the better part of the morning until he topped a rise and saw the blue stone towers of Huan-zuo Citadel rising beyond the treetops. The ancient fortress crowned a steep hill rising above the town proper, which sat walled and gated, surrounded by miles of working farmlands. Shango walked a few more hours until the forest thinned out, and he followed the river that flowed through the center of town. Huan-zuo looked much as he remembered from previous visits, a collection of peaked roofs and painted temples gathered at the foot of Sangzara’s high stronghold. River boats with blue and yellow sails glided east or west, moving produce and livestock to and from the city’s crowded wharves.

      Shango drank from a public well after he left the forest shadows. He walked in the sun like a man unworried and in no pressing haste. He did not stop to speak with any man or woman, although peasants dropped their baskets as he approached and fled to the side of the road. In the huts of field workers women drove their children inside as he came down the river road, staring out their windows with wide eyes. The men stood their ground with spade and pitchfork, as if they would stand a chance against a swordsman of Shango’s experience. He ignored them and entered the city gate, which stood open to evening traffic.

      The guards eyed him warily and waved him through, moving aside their long spears.

      “Shango of Huan-gao!” One of the spearmen called to him as he passed. “Master Zo awaits you in the Pit of Vipers. Seek him directly and none else shall contest you. That honor is claimed by the master.”

      Shango gave a slight bow and resumed his walking. The townsfolk wore brighter clothing, but they were just as frightened as the country folk. They hid behind the doors of shops and hovels, children clinging to their knees and shoulders. Guards on every corner wore the demon-masks of Shangzara’s service, yet they made no move to stop Shango as he went deeper into the city. As the sun fell behind the nearby hill, the governor’s fortress became a mountain of darkness, a shadow that lay over the entire city. Perhaps the people who lived here no longer felt that shadow because they had grown used to its iron weight.

      Shango avoided the blinking eyes of children as he passed by.

      The Pit of Vipers was a staging ground for gladiatorial events and ritual combat. Such violent delights were popular in Huan-zuo as they never were in Huan-gao. Many things were allowed here with the wizard in power, things that used to be forbidden and unholy. The smell of rotting meat came to Shango’s nostrils as he walked the lanes below the high castle.

      A crowd stood gathered into a circle ahead of him, most of them swordsmen wearing demon masks, some of them well-dressed noblemen making bets with one another. All eyes turned to Shango as he entered the plaza and approached the pit. The swordsmen and spectators together must have numbered in the hundreds, and they spread wide before him as he progressed. Finally he stood at the edge of a deep square hole and saw Shira Zo sitting cross-legged on the far edge. Between them lay the open space of the pit, and the mass of crawling, hissing serpents that littered its floor.

      Shira’s long white hair was tied in a traditional top-knot, something Shango had forsaken years ago. Shango wore his dark hair in a single long braid now, like a southern-born barbarian. A drum began to beat somewhere in the crowded plaza, and someone played melodies on a wooden flute.

      Shango sat down on his side of the pit, laying his great-grandfather’s sword upon his knees. Directly across from him Shira sat in the same position, naked steel gleaming across his lap. His eyes were closed as Shango approached, but now they opened. Shango hated the deep green of them, eyes so bright and yet so empty. He longed to see the light go out of them as Shira’s head rolled across bloody ground.

      “You have been given the opportunity to avoid this death,” Shira said. He did not move a finger or a muscle, but he caught Shango in the grip of his emerald gaze.

      “I have,” Shango said. “I refused it.”

      “I see,” Shira said. “You are impervious to reason.”

      “To seek revenge one must be impervious to reason and oblivious to fate,” Shango said.

      Shira smiled. “You quote the Book of Elder Wisdom well. Yet your fate is to die here, today, at my hand. Can you be so oblivious to this fact?”

      “The spirits of the murdered dead bring me here,” Shango said. “The children you hacked to pieces in Huan-gao…the women…”

      “Your child…” said Shira. “Your woman. I remember them well…”

      Shango winced. “You have no honor, and I have forsaken mine to face you. So I will gladly die to sink this blade deep into your heart. With my dying breath, I will rip out your life and offer it to the Gods of Hell. If that is to be my fate, then I cherish the unfolding of it.”

      Shira grunted. His head turned sideways a bit.

      “Then follow me into the pit,” he said, and jumped.

      Shango followed him immediately, his sandals crushing the coils of several angry vipers. He swept the blade about his feet and legs, sheering off the heads of the nearest serpents, dodging their swift fangs as he cleared a tiny space for himself amid the slithering mass.

      Shira СКАЧАТЬ