ESCAPE! ESCAPE!
Edward Exeter had escaped from Sussvale.
He stalked along happily, encrusted in red dust. His boots were rubbing his toes, but the ache in his legs was almost pleasurable. Rothpass was one of the easier passes in the Vales, and now the road led downward. He matched strides with Goathoth Peddler, who was also on his way to Nagvale and enjoyed company on the road. Ahead of them trudged the peddler's packbeast, to whom Edward had not been introduced, but which generally resembled a jackass designed by a committee of iguana. Goathoth was expounding on his daughter-in-law's childbearing problems in a Sussian accent like a knife on a tin plate, quite unaware how little his young friend understood. Neither of them was particularly worried by trivia on such a fine morning.
"——-," said the peddler, "another miscarriage. That made three. A few fortnights later they went to ——-and sacrificed a ——-to ——-"
"A very wise decision," Edward remarked.
Jagged peaks towered on either hand. Once in a while the trail would emerge from forest and offer a glimpse of scenery ahead. From that height the world stretched out forever. Nagvale was another intermontane basin, of course. It seemed narrower than Sussvale, but he could not discern the end of it; the bordering ranges trailed away into hazy distance.
He was enjoying himself, although his conscience said he should not be. He had betrayed little Eleal, who had befriended him and saved his life. He had left a trail of dead friends and would-be helpers—Bagpipe, Creighton, Gover, Onica—not to mention an unknown number of slain foes, one of whom he had dispatched personally.
By all rights, he should have died in Sussland. Zath had been waiting for him to arrive there, as the Filoby Testament prophesied he would. The god of death had set his deadly reapers to trap the expected Liberator. Julius Creighton and Gover Envoy had died, but Edward had escaped. Zath's killers had set another ambush for him, and Onica Mason had died; but again Edward had beaten the odds and escaped. Tion, Suss's patron god, had let him go, which he had never expected either.
He could claim very little credit for himself, but he had escaped from Sussvale. He was going Home. In a few more weeks, he would be back in England, ready to fight for King and Country—under an assumed name, of course, but in time to help humble the Prussian Bully. Nextdoor would be nothing but an incredible memory, a month missing from his life.
A party of pilgrims came riding up the western slope, taking it easy to spare their moas. They waved cheerily at the two men heading down but did not break off their conversation. Clearly they had seen nothing odd in either of the two. They had probably not noticed the younger one taking an unusually hard look at their mounts.
Edward, for his part, was amused at how easily he now accepted the idea of creatures that had hooves and fur and yet looked like birds. In less than two weeks, he had already adjusted to the lesser oddities of Nextdoor. It was a fascinating place. Perhaps one day, after the war was over, he might try to come back, to explore it in detail—or even fulfill a prophecy or two.
"——-" Goathoth announced triumphantly, "bouncing baby boy! Named him ——-after his ——-!"
"May the gods be praised!"
Tangles of purple and bronze creepers in the woods sent out waves of pungent scents, while shrieking birds fluttered and stalked around—feathery birds and furry birds also, for Nextdoor had a wide variety of bipeds.
Just once, near the summit, Edward had sensed the eeriness of virtuality, but very weak and localized. An ancient mossy shrine stood there, a curved wall around a weathered statue of a woman, which would be some aspect of Eltiana, the Lady. His companion had lingered to say a prayer; Edward stayed well back from it, although he doubted that there would be any resident numen at such a minor node. They had continued on their way unmolested.
The previous day he had stopped at a lonely farmhouse in the mountains and offered to work a few hours in return for a meal and a place to sleep. He had chopped wood and milked goats. He had raised some blisters and been butted a couple of times and enjoyed himself thoroughly. The food had been tasty and filling, the soft hay fragrant. The farmer's eldest daughter had offered more than customary hospitality and been mildly peeved when her advances were declined, but apart from that all parties had been satisfied by the arrangement. A stranger's charisma would take care of most problems; youth and honest labor guaranteed untroubled rest.
He had certainly had an interesting couple of weeks since leaving Paris.
"——-Thargians," the peddler grumbled. "All over Narshland like ——-around a mating ——-!"
"Murderous scum," Edward agreed.
Joalia versus Thargia was another war, but one he must stay clear of. He was just the right age to be handed a spear and told to form up. He wondered which side Goathoth spied for. It soon became evident that Goathoth was wondering the same about him, for he began spinning a string of leading questions.
Oh, the temptation to tell the truth!—I'm D'ward, the Liberator whom the Filoby Testament predicts will kill death. I'm a stranger in this world. When I get down to Sonalby, I'm going to seek out an agent of the Service, which is another group of strangers. They will send me Home. In another couple of fortnights, I'll be in England. That's on Earth. Yes, Earth. Well, I'd never heard of Nextdoor until a couple of weeks ago. Any other questions?
It was not on. Instead, Edward explained that he was a wandering scholar from Rinooland, a vale far enough away to explain his accent and his ignorance of the geography.
Joal versus Tharg was one war. There was another, older war that he must also stay out of. Odious as Tion had turned out to be, the Youth was not as despicable as some of the others, the ones known as the Chamber—Zath and his allies. Obviously Tion conspired against other members of the Pentatheon—the Parent, the Man, the Lady, the Maiden. That was the Great Game, which the strangers played to relieve the tedium of immortality. His personal recreations might be vicious, but the Lord of Art did not use murder to earn his mana. He seemed to keep his subordinates under reasonable control. He was certainly not a member of the Chamber, or he would never have released the Liberator to find his foretold destiny. Did he disapprove of Zath on ethical grounds, or was he merely resentful of his ill-gotten influence in the Great Game?
The struggle between the Service and the Chamber was yet a third war. Somewhere in a place nicknamed Olympus, the organization Edward sought was trying to do something about the appalling injustice of a deceitful religion, to bring enlightenment to an oppressed and benighted population. It was a new version of the White Man's Burden. His father had favored the cause, and anything the guv'nor had supported would be worthy of Edward's loyalty also.
But that was not his war either, no matter what the Testament predicted. He had duties elsewhere, a fourth war.
He must not—could not—stay and play missionary in this alien world while his friends were dying for England. He heard Alice's voice whispering starry-eyed romantic idealist! in his mind's ear, and he chuckled. Long might he remain one!
A bend brought another breathtaking glimpse of the great valley ahead, framed between rocky spurs. Sunlight gleamed on a winding river.
"Susswater again?" he asked.
The peddler frowned. "Nagwater."
Well, that was absurd! Susswater flowed west. The road had followed it for a while, detouring into the hills when the gorge became too narrow. Now both trail and river had emerged from the mountains. Obviously that was the same river!
But apparently it was not the same river to Goathoth Peddler, so each vale must have its own river. That was a strange concept of geography, another stumbling block to understanding the language—the many languages.
"Those mountains? What are they named?"
This time the peddler's sun-reddened eyes were frankly incredulous. "Nagwall, of course!"
Edward thought about that for a few paces. He used gestures to aid his next question. "Nagwall this side. What name on the other side?"
"Joalwall there." The peddler waved his stick northward. Then southward. "Lemodwall there."
"And in the middle what are they called?"
The old man seemed completely at a loss. "What pass are you looking from?"
What a range was called depended on where it was seen from? If mountains were all about you, always, then perhaps you had no concept of classifying mountains, like fish in an ever-present sea?
Why did Nextdoor have to be confoundingly interesting?
It was late afternoon when he limped into Sonalby. His feet hurt and his legs ached, and Nextdoor no longer seemed quite so fascinating as it had done in the morning. The peddler had stopped off to trade at an isolated ranch house, leaving him to walk alone for the last couple of hours.
Nagvale was different. Where Sussvale had been lushly tropical, with farms and orchards packed in from wall to mountain wall, here the flat land was semidesert. The grass was scrubby and well grazed; trees were rare and spiny. There were no hedges or fences; houses were grouped into small, widely scattered settlements, which he assumed were ranches. The only industry he had detected so far was herding. The livestock were gangling, hairless beasts as angular as camels would be without humps. The males sported elaborate branched antlers and looked potentially dangerous. He was relieved that none came near the road.
The herders were grown men, and they carried spears and big circular shields. Many of them were astride moas or had moas tethered nearby. He wondered if the weapons were for defense against the male cattle or against predators, and if those predators had four legs or two.
Sonalby was a larger village than any he had seen in Sussvale, although smaller than Suss itself. It had no wall or palisade around it, which meant either that Nagland was peaceful or that the inhabitants relied on their weapons for defense. It sprawled for more than a mile along the bank of a wide, reedy river, which clearly provided building material as well as drinking water. The houses were wicker walled and thatched, none higher than one story. There seemed to be no pattern to them, no streets.
He was parched, footsore, hungry. His first need was to locate Kalmak Carpenter and enlist the aid of the Service. Onica had not lived to carry word to Olympus, so he would have to improvise. Kalmak himself was only a native, not a stranger, but he would recognize the password and put Edward on the road Home.
Nagvale looked more like Kenya than England. From the road he had seen Nagians only at a distance, but he began to catch closer glimpses of them as he approached the town. They were about the color of well-tanned Spaniards or Italians. Most were lanky and leathery, their dark hair and beards long and untrimmed. Seeing both sexes dressed in leather kilts or loincloths, he found himself thinking of them as savages and that discovery annoyed him. Their way of life was well adapted to the climate. They might have a sophisticated literature and culture for all he knew to the contrary, although Eleal had never mentioned the troupe performing in Nagland.
Women going around bare-breasted had seemed quite unremarkable during his childhood in Africa. He found them more interesting now.
The village had no wall or stockade, or even any well-defined borders. He passed the first houses without being challenged. To his left a group of women pounded meal, to his right young men were practicing spear-throwing. Neither group seemed especially promising—or especially interested—although he was an obvious outsider in his Sussian smock. His hair was as black as theirs, but he doubted that anyone else had blue eyes. He had decided to go on a little farther when faint sounds of shouting came drifting out from the town.
The warriors stopped their spear-throwing. The women looked up.
Then the men took up their spears and began to run. The women rose to their feet, hastily gathered small children, and set off to follow.
So did Edward. Pushing his blistered feet faster, he hurried after them. Soon the shouting grew louder; he saw more people running. Something of importance was happening. It could have nothing to do with him, but if everyone was there, then he had better attend also. A stranger caught skulking around deserted houses would be suspected of ill intentions.
He saw smoke. One of the houses was burning, which could hardly be a rare event in a village built like this one. The houses were spaced well apart, undoubtedly for just that reason. With no set street pattern, the people were heading more or less straight to the emergency. He followed until he reached the assembled crowd. He peered over heads. Half the building had gone already, red flames shooting skyward. Through a window he could see the interior glowing like a furnace and could feel the heat on his face, even at that distance.
He sensed something amiss. However strange the language, he could read the tone of the shouting. There ought to be wailing and lamentation. There wasn't. He heard jeering and anger. This was a mob. Someone was in trouble, and ten to one that house had been deliberately torched.
He located the center of the agitation, the men in charge of this riot. Their green robes, their shaven heads and faces, all confirmed that they were priests. They were haranguing the crowd, rousing it to ever-greater fury.
His skin prickled. An outsider had no place in a nasty business like this. Mobs were fickle. Furthermore, green was the color of Karzon, the Man, one of the Five. In the popular mind, Zath was an avatar of the Man, but in Zath's case the vassal was the stronger of the two. Zath was certainly one of the Chamber, and Karzon must be assumed to be so also. This affair might very well concern Edward, therefore, and the sooner he made himself scarce the better.
He stepped back one pace, then stopped as the crowd howled, a hungry, bestial sound. Four men came forward, carrying another prone between them. The priests yelled something. The crowd howled again.
Then the lynch party ran forward to the flaming house, two holding their victim's ankles, two his wrists. They swung in unison, and hurled him bodily through the doorway. They beat a hasty retreat from the heat. The man screamed from inside the furnace. Edward watched, appalled and helpless. He thought he saw the wretch rise to his feet, already wreathed in flame, only to stumble and collapse. There was one more scream and then nothing but the roar of the fire and the wild hollering of the mob.
"Karzon!" they screamed. "Krobidirkin Karzon! Karzon Krobidirkin!"
The priests waved a signal, and the execution squad came forward again. This time they were carrying a woman.
Edward began to push his way through the crowd. He was a stranger; he had charisma; he might be able to do something. He was too late. Sickened, he turned away, hearing the lustful howl of the mob and the woman's horribly prolonged dying shriek.
An elderly man stood beside him. His graying beard hung to his waist, but it did not hide old ritual scars on his scraggly chest. The wrinkled face above the beard was painted with a complex design, mostly in white, but with minor elements in the other sacred colors. He was grinning and rubbing his hands on his leather skirt.
"What have they done?" Edward demanded in Joalian. "What is their crime?"
Filmy eyes inspected the stranger suspiciously. Then the old man bared his teeth and barked out a string of words.
Edward caught very little of the explanation, except for one name: Kalmak. Another howl from the crowd made him look around. He caught a glimpse of an adolescent boy cartwheeling through the air, following his parents into the pyre.
So the priests of Karzon had just taken care of Kalmak. They had also destroyed Edward's only lead to the Service. Without the help of the Service, he could not return to Earth.
No escape! No escape!
He was trapped on Nextdoor, with no way to escape.
He watched in dismay as all his hopes went up in flames.
What was that confounded noise? He was in a bed. A bell ringing? A fire alarm. Not on Nextdoor any longer. Eyes gritty with sleep, head like a swamp. Back on Earth, in England. Dreaming of three years ago. Smedley had set off the alarm to help him escape from Staffles . . . .