The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 13

Anthony shouted and threw himself against Balkis, knocking her out of the axe's path, but it struck at the base of Anthony's neck and cleaved straight through to his hip. Balkis screamed and threw herself at him, already catching up her gown to stanch the flow of blood before seeing it. Then she saw a spear-point emerge from her chest and stab on into Anthony, who was still intact, and through him and into the axe-wielder, who threw up his hands, mouth widening in a scream that sounded only faintly, echoing as though from a distance.

“Down!” Anthony cried as they both struck the meadow grass—and saw the metal sandals step before them, felt a chill that froze them clear through, and knew that the other foot had trod down through them, then risen. Their owner stepped on past the companions, showing greaved shins, then a kilt of leather straps stiffened with plates of brass, then a brazen back-plate beneath jointed epaulets and a brass helmet with a horsehair crest above all.

“It is a soldier of ancient Macedon,” Anthony exclaimed in wonder.

“It is a ghost!” Balkis cried.

Sure enough, the soldier was smoky gray, and they could see stars through him, no matter how dimly, as he wrenched his spear out of his fallen enemy, who faded into nothingness even as they watched. The victor tucked his spear-butt under his arm and marched on toward the center of the valley, but his boots made no sound, left no print in the grass. The tread of marching men was distant, echoing down the canyons of time with the shouts and clashing and trumpets and drums of a battle long past.

“This is a haunted valley, and the ghosts can have it!” Anthony declared. “Come!”

His arm helped Balkis to her feet, and together they fled up the hillside. Twice more warriors rose to block their paths, but they ran on, shivering at the chill as the ghostly battle-axes slid through them but not pausing for a second, their fear of the ghosts only lending wings to their feet.

Finally they struggled up the last few feet of slope and collapsed on the level ground above, chilled to the bone, to the marrow, by the piercing of ghostly weapons. They gasped for breath and looked back the way they had come to make sure none of the phantoms had followed them. There were none near, but far away, in the center of the valley, ghost-lights swirled as a ragtag line of barbarians gave way foot by foot to the phalanx of Macedon. They hold their valley dearly, though—undisciplined or not, they were each of them valiant warriors, and two Macedonians died for each of them. But the phalanx clearly prevailed.

The breeze blew them the sound of battle again, and Balkis shivered. “What ghosts are these who fight a battle long past, again and again every night?”

“My ancestors,” Anthony said, voice grim and face hard.

Balkis glanced at him and felt sympathy flow. To lessen the pain, she asked, “Which side?”

“Both.” Anthony seemed shaken as he gazed down at the ghost-battle below. “I had thought the tale to be only someone's dream spoken aloud, nothing but some spinning of an after-dinner rhyme that held better than most—but I see now that it is more.”

The tale clearly disturbed him as much as the ghosts he had just endured. “Tell me,” she urged.

Anthony took a breath. “Long ago, hundreds of years, Alexander the Emperor sent a phalanx into the desert to take submission of each tribe who held a valley or oasis here. All surrendered without fight except the men of one valley—this, it would seem—and the phalanx marched into their land to conquer them. The defenders, though, were truly desert raiders to whom the valley was only one home of many; they had been hardened by the wasteland and by years and years of raiding caravans. They met the phalanx head-on, then sent outriders to the flanks, and though they lost, there were only a quarter of the Macedonians left alive.”

“What of the raiders?” Balkis asked, her voice hushed.

“They retreated into the mountains, and the Macedonians followed. There they jockeyed for position, neither willing to strike first unless they held the higher ground—and finally settled in place, watching one another across a ravine and occasionally raiding one another…”

“And became neighbors?” Balkis asked, her eyes huge.

“Their grandchildren did,” Anthony said. “The Macedonians would not budge, for they had their orders from Alexander and would not go back to him until the raiders submitted or every last soldier was dead. They married mountain women from their side of the chasm, while the raiders' wives came up to join them. Their children, though, married the children of the mountaineers on their side of the chasm.”

“Who were kin to the soldiers' wives!” Balkis exclaimed.

“They were indeed, so the grandchildren saw no reason to fight their cousins. They made peace, and a few of the great-grandchildren married one another—so by the time my father was born, we were so much a mixture of raider, soldier, and mountaineer that we know not to whom we should swear allegiance.”

“And therefore govern yourselves, and resist all who would conquer you?” Balkis asked with a smile.

“We do, though few care to try.” Anthony still gazed at the echoing battle below. “My folk are a stubborn and stiff-necked breed, and yield to death rather than to kings—as the raiders did when they fought this battle.”

“Whereas the Macedonians we see here are bound by loyalty to Alexander's commands,” Balkis said softly, suddenly understanding, “and will therefore not willingly yield a single inch.”

“Even so,” Anthony agreed. “Therefore they stand here, obedient to the emperor's will, and every night their ghosts fight the battle again.”

“You do not mean that each side is convinced that if they refight it often enough, they will finally win!”

“So it seems.” Anthony's mouth pulled into a hard smile, gaze still on the ancient and current battle. “So the legend says. I had never thought it anything but an old wives' tale, a fable to make people realize they had to let go of the past and think of the future, but…”

His voice trailed off. Balkis watched him a moment, then finished the sentence for him. “It is no fable, but truth.”

“It would seem so,” Anthony said. “Alas! My poor ancestors! If their descendants marrying and becoming one people cannot end their fighting, what can?”

“Nothing,” Balkis whispered, but she nonetheless wracked her brains as the two of them sat, spellbound and shivering, watching the ghosts slash and stab at one another until all had fallen. Even then she could think of no way to weave a spell to stop this ghostly carnage, and decided that this was a task for a priest, not a wizard.

It seemed an age before the battle sounds died away. Then Anthony spoke, face somber. “It is done. Let us leave this place.”

But Balkis clasped his hand, looking back at the valley floor. “What noise is that?”

Anthony listened. It was soft at first, only a crunching here and there, but it grew in number and volume—ripping sounds, slurping and gulping, slobbering and grinding. He shuddered. “It is the carrion-eaters, come to clear away the ghost-flesh.”

“But I see nothing!”

“They, too, are ghosts,” Anthony said grimly, “and I never yet knew a vulture or jackal that did not hide from sight when it could.”

Balkis buried her face in Anthony's tunic. “I dare not see their work being done!”

“Nor I.” Anthony hid his face in her hair, and they sat shielding one another against the night, but the sounds of the gruesome banquet made them shiver until the horrid feast ended.

Finally the sky lightened with false dawn; finally the obscene noises dwindled. Still they sat huddled together, and neither could have said when sitting became lying, when shuddering stilled and warmth and solace grew, for at last they slept in one another's arms.

Balkis woke when the rays of the setting sun bathed her face. She sat up, blinking in confusion as she looked about, then remembered how she had come to this place of trees and grass in the middle of a desert, and shivered. She shook Anthony gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead! Wake up and tell me that last night's memories are only a nightmare.”

“Hmmm? Wha … ? Nightmare?” Anthony sat up, blinking, and raised a hand to cover a yawn. “What nightmare is this? That I travel with you? I cry your pardon for the unpleasantness, but it is—”

“No, dunderhead!” Balkis gave him a poke in the ribs. “Fresh wakened, and you jest with your first yawn!” But she smiled. “The phantom army, and the ghastly banquet! Tell me that those were only a dream!”

“The battle!” Anthony came wide-awake. “No, I fear my ancestors were real.”

“But their ghosts?”

Anthony shrugged. “Are any ghosts real? Still, we did see them—it was no dream.”

“No, I fear not” Balkis gazed off toward the valley.

“Well, there is one way to tell,” Anthony said. “We have only to wait and listen. If we hear shouting and the clash of steel, we will know.”

Balkis glanced at the desert beyond and thought of the empty miles stretching northward. “Should we take the time?”

“An extra hour out of several months?” Anthony asked. “I think we can spare it.” He unstoppered the waterskin and took a drink, then frowned and shook it. “We should take time to climb down to the stream in any event—we do not wish to march dry.”

Balkis shuddered at the thought.

“Come, we need not stay longer than the first calling of trumpets,” Anthony said.

“True,” Balkis admitted, and together they climbed down to fill their waterskins, but climbed well back up the hillside while there was still some sunset left—at least high on the slope. There they turned to look down into the valley, already deep in gloaming—and froze, staring.

“What is that which moves so quickly?” Balkis asked.

“It is the size of a fox,” Anthony offered.

“No fox I've ever seen had a jet-black coat!”

“No, nor was ever so shiny.” Anthony stiffened. “Tell me I should not be so surprised—we are only one valley away, and the ants must forage here now and again.”

“Surely they must,” Balkis agreed, but neither of them believed it.

They could not deny, though, that the creature they saw scuttling abut the valley floor was definitely a giant ant. As they watched, it cast about, probing the air with its antennae, north to east, east to south, south to west—and stopped, facing them. It lifted its head…

“Be ready to run.” Anthony's hand tightened on hers.

The ant shot forward—but a form rose from the ground before it, a form in leather armor, battle-axe swinging. The ant hesitated, then attacked the shape with fury—and went right on through. It halted in confusion, turning back—and saw a figure in brazen armor advancing on it with a spear. Instantly the ant charged, tearing through the apparition, then pausing in consternation, but only for a moment before another specter came running in its direction while a fourth came hurtling from the other direction. The ant whirled, tearing at the spectral warriors, about and about in a frantic dance of frustration, never able to come to grips with its foes.

Anthony and Balkis watched in amazement as the ant ran to and fro upon the ancient battlefield and the twilight faded. When the stars came out and full darkness descended in the valley, the ant froze for a moment, then dove at the ground beneath it, tearing and hurling, digging itself a deep, deep burrow, as it always did at night.

“It might bring up gold!” Anthony started down the hill.

“And it might not!” Balkis caught his arm. “You might stay there all night waiting, until your ancestors drove you mad! Come, say a prayer of thanks to them for distracting the little monster, and let us flee while we can!”

“Oh, very well!” Anthony grumbled. “But you will never be rich, Balkis, if this is how you treat your opportunities.”

“You will quickly be dead, if this is how you treat yours,” Balkis retorted, and tugged at his arm. “Let us be gone from this place!”

“Let us indeed.” Anthony tore his gaze away from the new anthill and turned to follow her up the slope. At the top, he looked back and stood gazing at the glowing battle in the bottom of the valley.

Balkis observed the somber set of his face and said gently, “It was no mere nightmare after all.”

“No, it was not.” Anthony turned his face to the desert, and the future. “Let us go, sweet Balkis. It is not good to become mired in the past.”

By degrees the arid land became more green; thorn and scrub gave way to grass and shrub. They began to find trees, first wide apart and stunted, but closer and closer together as they went farther north, until they found themselves roaming through a savannah with streams only a little more than a day's travel apart. A week after they had left the valley of ghosts, the nights were no longer so chill nor the days so unbearably hot, and they dared to begin traveling by day. So they were walking beneath a mid-morning sun when they met the urgent traveler.

They could tell he was in a hurry because he ran a hundred yards, then walked a hundred, and as he came toward them, alternately running and walking, Anthony took out his sling and fitted a stone to its cup. “What chases him, to make him run so?”

“Whatever it is, he must rest and take nourishment, or it will catch him.” Balkis held up a hand as the man approached. “Stay, stranger, and break bread with us.”

“You have bread?” The man skidded to a halt, and Balkis saw that he wore only a tunic, cloak, and sandals, with no pack and not even a wallet tied at his waist.

“You have been long without food,” Anthony guessed, and took off his pack to dig out biscuit and dried meat. “Is the land so empty of game as that?”

“I dare not tarry to hunt, let alone take time to roast my catch! Thank you, stranger, and bless you!” The traveler all but snatched the food from Anthony's fingers and began to tear at it with his teeth.

“What pursues you with such greed that you dare not stop to eat?” Balkis asked

“Women, maiden.” The traveler shuddered at the memory. “Warrior women.”

Balkis and Anthony exchanged a startled glance, then turned back to the traveler. “Tell us of them,” Balkis urged, “for we mean to go farther north. Dare we journey through their country?”

“You may,” the traveler said, but jerked his head at Anthony. “You, however, dare only go there if you can run very quickly— or have far greater willpower than any man I've ever met!”

“Why should I need willpower to travel?” Anthony asked, bewildered.

“Because you will so lose yourself in pleasure that you will forget to count,” the stranger said. “You will overstay your nine days, as I have, and will have to flee for your life.”

Balkis felt a frisson of alarm, a thrill of danger, but Anthony was intrigued. “What nine days? And what pleasure could so ensnare a man that he forgets to guard his life?”

“Women,” the man said again, simply, “warrior women,” then added, “Without their armor, at play.”

In Balkis, frisson turned to apprehension, but Anthony looked even more interested. “I would have thought that warriors' play was athletic contests.”

“You could call it that” the traveler said with a sardonic smile, then took another mouthful and explained through his chewing, “You are about to enter the country of the Grand Feminie, young people. It extends for forty-two days'journey, and if you must go north, you must go through it, or take twice as long skirting it through the desert that lies to either side. It is a nation of warriors, female warriors, and no males are allowed to dwell within its boundaries, nor have been for hundreds of years.”

“Hundreds of years?” Balkis frowned, puzzled. “Then where do new wairiors come from?”

“From the brief stays that men are allowed.” Again, the stranger managed a sardonic smile between mouthfuls. “No male may stay with them more than nine days, during which time he may carouse and amuse himself as much as he wishes and with as many different women as he can. Thus do they conceive”

Balkis's feeling of foreboding deepened. “What if he should overstay his time?”

“In such a case, the man will die—and therefore will I leave you.” The stranger stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you for your food, good young people— but now I must flee.” With no more ado, he took to his heels and ran.

Balkis turned to Anthony. “Let us go around this country, I pray you! No matter how many months it takes, it will be far safer!”

Anthonv frowned. “I have never seen you fear anything before.”

“True enough,” Balkis admitted, “but I fear… I fear…”

“Not their women!”

“Not their fighting, no. Oh Anthony, please…”

High-pitched, ululating cries filled the air, and a dozen female warriors burst into sight around a curve in the road. They were armed like the Macedonian ghosts, with crested helmets, brazen breastplates, brass-braced kilts, greaves, and armored sandals. They caught sight of the fleeing traveler and doubled their pace.

“Aside, quickly!” Balkis pulled Anthony off the road.

It did no good—as the women warriors came even with them, their leader barked a command, and four of them stopped, looking darkly disappointed, and challenged the companions. Their accent was thick, but Balkis could understand it—the language of Maracanda had become the international tongue of these central lands. “I am Ramba, dozen-leader of Queen Harikot,” the soldier said. “Why do you walk this road?”

A flippant answer came to Balkis's lips, but before she could defy the soldier, Anthony said, in tones of respect, “We travel to Maracanda, dozen-leader. May we pass through your country?”

“Aye, if you can come and go in nine days.”

“But your land is forty-two days across!” Balkis protested.

There was a cry of despair down the road. Balkis and Anthony spun and saw the soldiers wrestling the stranger to the ground. Balkis whirled back to the dozen-leader. “Spare him, I pray you! He is not an evil man!”

“You must speak to the gross-leader about that,” the dozen-leader said, her face granite.

As the warriors came back to them with the stranger struggling in their midst, Balkis cried to him, “I had not thought that giving you food would have slowed you to your death! Your pardon, I pray thee!”

“Given, bless you,” the man groaned. “I had not known they were so close. Believe me, the ten minutes I spent with you would have made no difference.”

Half the young women stared at him, then glanced uncertainly at one another.

“You gave this man aid?” asked a tall, older woman with cold gray eyes and a stern expression.

“I did, and I would do so again!” Balkis declared. “He is not evil, only weak to temptation! Spare him, I pray you!”

“He is lustful and licentious,” the woman said grimly, “as greedy for our bodies as a miser for gold. Had he not lost his head in our embraces, he would have kept count of the days and departed in time to be safe. Indeed, if he had not indulged himself so freely with us, I have no doubt he would have had strength enough to run faster and make his escape.”

“No man but a trained athlete at his peak could outrun your young cheetahs,” the man groaned.

“Flattery may have served well you in the boudoir, but it will not aid you now! What of your wife, eh? What has she done these ten days while you dallied with us?”

“I am a bachelor,” the stranger moaned, “and a poor man.”

Balkis found herself wondering what sorts of men would avail themselves of the warrior women's invitation, and began to realize why they mistrusted males. “Many of your visitors may be cads and roues,” she said, “but not this one.”

“It is the law,” the officer grated. “He thought us worth his life—and the bill has come due. Women! Take him to Queen Harikot and let her judge!”

The man gave a moan of despair as the women dragged him away.

“Take the woman to a guest house,” the officer directed, and two women stepped up to either side of Balkis. “Go where they tell you,” the officer said, “or they shall have to bind and carry you.”

Balkis glared at her. “Poor treatment of a guest!”

“Few guests seek to argue the case of a reprobate,” the officer returned, and told the remaining two soldiers, “Escort the young man to the pleasure dome!”

Balkis gave an involuntary cry and started toward Anthony, but hard hands clasped her arms, holding her back. He gave her an uncertain smile and raised his arms to guard.

“You have nothing to fear,” the officer told him, “as long as you keep track of the days, and leave in time to be gone from this land before your nine days are up.”

“But I would need forty-two days to cross your land! I would have to come back here!”

“Do you truly object?” the officer asked with a cynical smile.

“I do indeed! I have come to travel north, not to dally and lose days!”

“You shall abide by the law of the land,” the officer said inexorably, “and even if you did naught but travel, you would still have to leave the Grand Feminie in nine days.” She turned to Balkis. “Come, little sister. You, at least, shall be treated with honor.”

“How can I, when I fear for my Anthony?”

Anthony's head whipped about, eyes staring at her.

“Is he yours, then?” The officer's gaze sharpened. “If he is true, you have nothing to fear—soldiers respect loyalty.”

“I… I cannot truly claim him.” Balkis' gaze faltered and dropped.

“Fear not, sweet one,” Anthony told her, though his voice shook. “I understand loyalty, too.”

“Think of St. Thomas, dear companion,” Balkis said. “We shall see him together!”

“We shall.” Anthony's tone was a promise; then he turned to follow his captors.

Still, as Balkis followed her escort, she wondered when Anthony had become “my Anthony” in her heart.

The guest house was clean and pleasant, fragrant with flowers and with curtained windows—but it was Spartan in its decoration. There were several chairs, two with arms, but none padded, a low table between them, and a low chest for linens and clothing. Against the wall stood a narrow bed which Balkis was sure was almost as hard as the chairs.

As they sat, a young girl came in with a tray containing a tea set. Balkis breathed in the aroma and began to think her spirits might revive—but she was desperately afraid for Anthony. She knew his goodness, but how could any man withstand temptation such as he was bound to confront?

The two soldiers with her sat down, taking off their helmets and shaking out long, lustrous hair with sighs of relief. Balkis was amazed—the one had a mane of rich chestnut, the other of red-gold, both long enough to cover their breastplates.

“It cushions the helmet,” one said, “when we wind it about our heads.”

Balkis realized she had been staring, and looked down at the tea set, but her heart shrank within her. Without the nose-guards to hide their features, and framed by the glory of their hair, their faces were quite beautiful, and judging from the proportions of their cuirasses, she guessed they both had spectacular figures. How could Anthony hold out, indeed!

“Will you pour?” the redhead asked. “For the few days of your sojourn, this is your house.”

Not that she had the option of choosing her guests, Balkis reflected sardonically. “I thank you, soldier, but it is more truly yours. Pour, if you will.”

“Call me Alantha.” The soldier bent forward and poured tea into three small cups without handles. “I trust you like the tea of China.”

“I'm sure that I shall.” Balkis had tasted Chinese tea before and preferred Indian, but she did not feel it would be diplomatic to say so. “I am called Balkis.”

“And I am Illior,” the brunette said. She accepted her cup and sipped. “Why do you travel toward the north?”

“Because I have been kidnapped from my home there and wish to return.”

“Indeed!” Alantha's gaze fairly snapped, her tone hard. “Who stole you away?”

“A sorcerer,” Balkis said.

The two soldiers stared, then frowned. “A man, of course,” said Illior.

“He was, yes—but I think he may have been a woman's pawn.”

“Why not?” Alantha gave her a hard smile. “They are so easy to manipulate, are they not? Or so we hear.”

“I have not tried it myself.” But Balkis thought of the way she had foisted herself onto the family of Queen Alisande and felt a trace of guilt.

“Why did he mark you for stealing?” Alantha asked.

Balkis shrugged. “I can only guess.”

“Then do.”

Balkis sighed. “Perhaps he, or the woman who sent him, feared that I might steal my cousin's inheritance.”

“Your cousin is the woman?”

“No, but there are several who plan to marry him.”

“Vanity!” Alantha snorted, and Illior said, “Would they not be better advised to make their own way to wealth?”

“That is a difficult undertaking, in our land,” Balkis said.

“In any!”

“True enough.” Balkis frowned at Alantha. “Is it so difficult, then, for a soldier to rise in rank?”

“There are many soldiers,” Illior said simply, “and few officers.”

Balkis nodded with sympathy. “Many soldiers, and all of you brave and valiant. I have heard rumors of you in my homeland—though I confess I did not believe them.”

“They are true enough, I suspect,” Illior said amused. “What do they say of us?”

“That you are furious in war—so courageous and so disciplined that none have ever beaten you.”

Alantha's smile was complacent. “That is true indeed.”

“None at all?” Balkis pressed. “Is not Prester John emperor over all these lands of Central Asia?”

“That he is,” Alantha said, “but even his armies could not defeat our champions in the trial of arms to which he invited them. Nonetheless, all three of the queens of the Grand Femi-nie have allied with him and boast of that alliance, for they found him to be a paragon of morality and integrity, of justice and fair treatment to all. It is even rumored that he has recently found his niece who was lost, and has set her equal to his own son.”

Balkis bit her lip, then said quickly, “Call it alliance though they may, the queens are still his tributaries, when all is said.”

“They are, and the tribute they send him is a score of warrior women to swell his bodyguard.”

So that was where the female bodyguards came from! Balkis knew from experience that they took orders from none but their own captain, scarcely spoke with any of the other soldiers, but were quick enough to talk with merchants and diplomats. She saw instantly that they might be helping to guard Prester John, but were also having an education in commerce, law, and statecraft. No wonder the three queens were willing to send a different score of women every year!

“Would that tribute not put your queens on a par with all of Prester John's other subordinate kings?” Balkis asked.

Illior nodded. “It does indeed, making them part of the most powerful empire in the Orient—and they have no fear of being enslaved, for we their soldiers are warriors by training and by inclination, who keep our skills honed by continually holding mock battles.”

“And looking for excuses for going to war?” Balkis asked with sarcasm.

Alantha grinned. “I would not say we seek it—but perhaps we bring it faster than it might otherwise come, by our pride and our loathing of compromise. When we must go to battle, we go eagerly, seeking the glory and honor that entitles us to become mothers, and we fight most bravely indeed.”

Balkis could believe it, if that was what they had to do to win the privilege of having babies. Still, she was interested to learn that the mothering instinct was as strong in these women as in any others.

So they talked through that long afternoon, Balkis constantly on the watch for a chance to escape and go to Anthony's rescue—but her host-guards were too vigilant. Alantha happened to be sitting between her and the door, and Illior was quick to summon the servant girl to fetch food and drink from the other room at the slightest sign of Balkis' desire. Balkis began to feel as though she were bound with velvet ropes— comfortable, even pleasant against the skin, but binding her tightly nonetheless. She masked her growing desperation, and as the windows reddened with sunset, braced herself to work a spell into the conversation, hoping Alantha and Illior wouldn't realize what she was doing until it was too late to stop her with a blow.

Then Anthony lurched into the room, looking dazed. A soldier followed him, giving his shoulder another shove that explained his lurching. She wore no helmet or armor, only a linen tunic that clung to her figure and ended at mid-thigh, and her face flamed with anger—or was it embarrassment?