A Triumph of Souls Read online

  Herdsman and demon considered one another. Then the profane apparition clasped one clawed, long-fingered hand to its exposed scarlet chest and shivered.

  “Sure is cold out today.”

  “We find it tolerable,” Ehomba replied.

  “You would.” The demon began slapping its arms against its sides. It momentarily tripled their length so that it could also slap at its back and lower legs.

  For once, Simna had nothing to say, preferring to let his lanky companion conduct the entire conversation. If he could at that moment have rendered himself wholly invisible, he would gladly have done so. While the physical appearance of the demon was no more abhorrent than that of certain bureaucrats the swordsman had known, its face was a mask of pure horror, a promise of all the torments and suffering the netherworld was heir to. One joked with such a hideous specter at the risk of one’s life and limb.

  Yet while his companions remained anxiously in the background, Ehomba took a step forward and calmly extended a hand. “We are strangers in this blasted country, and could do with some information.”

  “Information you want, is it?” Grinning to reveal a maw packed with jumbled, broken, sharp-pointed teeth, the bare-armed fiend accepted the proffered fingers, shaking but leaving them attached to Ehomba’s hand. “I’ll help if I can. I have to say, your ignorance does you proud. Like now, for instance.” The clawed hand suddenly tightened around Ehomba’s.

  Instantly, steam began to rise from the virulent grip. Simna started to shout a warning that was already too late, then caught his breath. As the herdsman continued to sustain the handshake, the slitted yellow eyes of the demon began to widen. Eventually it released its hold.

  To the amazement of fiend and friends alike, Ehomba’s palm showed no evidence of damage from the searing handclasp. He smiled slightly. “It is also hot in my homeland. My skin is toughened from season after season of moving rocks that have lain in the sun for many years.”

  The demon nodded understandingly. Turning to one side, it spat out a soggy blob of brimstone. The impious spittle sizzled where it struck the sand. The chaw that bulged one of the creature’s cheeks must have been composed of solid sulfur.

  “I’d heard that some mortals could handle heat better than others. You must be one of them. What brings you to the Tortured Lands?”

  Ehomba nodded in the direction of the demon’s enormous pack. “I might ask you the same question.”

  “Fair enough.” The back of a scaly red arm wiped thick, blubbery red lips. “I’m a prospector, plying my trade. It is by nature a solitary business, only rarely rewarding, but it suits me.”

  This was something Simna ibn Sind felt he could relate to. Stepping out from behind Ehomba, he essayed his most comradely smile. “What is it you’re prospecting for out in this desolation? Gold, I would imagine. Or silver, or another of the precious metals? Gems, perhaps, or the rare ingredients for arcane powders and potions?”

  The horned skull shook slowly from side to side. “I am digging for lost souls.” Once again extending an elastic arm farther than was natural, the demon fumbled at its pack. “Exhumations have been meager these past few weeks, but there’s a little color in the pouch. Care to have a look?” From a small, tightly fastened, intricately inscribed leather bag there arose a faltering chorus of moans.

  “That’s all right.” Making motions of demurral, the momentarily confident swordsman once more hastily took refuge alongside his lean companion.

  With a shrug, the demon retracted his arm. “I understand. There’s really not much to look at. Fair size, decent opacity. Impure, of course, or they wouldn’t be here.” Perking up, he smiled horribly. “I’ve been following traces for some time, hoping to hit a vein.”

  Not mine, Simna hoped feelingly. Despite the veneer of civility that overlay the ongoing exchange of pleasantries, he could not escape the feeling that if Etjole Ehomba were not standing between him and the eager phantasm, he and the others would already be staked out on the searing sand with their body cavities ripped open and their entrails exposed to the sun. Why this should be he could not have said. The herdsman had evinced no special protection, had thrown up no obvious defenses. But Simna was certain their continued salvation was due solely to the herdsman’s presence among them. In this he believed as firmly as he believed in his own existence. Perhaps more so.

  It was plain to see that even as they conversed amiably, the demon was sizing them up and paying particular attention to Ehomba. Either there was something about the herdsman’s soul that rendered it unattractive, or else it was shielded by means and methods beyond the ken of a wandering swordsman. Whatever it was, Simna was exceedingly grateful for its existence, because it appeared to be protecting not only its owner, but his friends as well.

  “I’m Hoarowb.” The creature did not extend its hand again. “What do you want with the Blasted Lands? You don’t look like soul miners to me.”

  “We are not,” Ehomba admitted quietly as he leaned slightly on his spear for support.

  “That’s good. I don’t much care for competition in my territory. Rich pockets of lost souls are few and far between, and it’s the smart fiend who keeps their location a secret.”

  “Our business does not lie in this country.” Raising his spear, the herdsman pointed to the distant, glistening crags of the Curridgians. “We travel through to the mountains, and beyond.”

  Sniffing like a pig snuffling for offal, the demon extended its head forward in the direction of the spearpoint. “Interesting poker you’ve got there. Positively rank with dead millennia.” Again the hideous grin. “I don’t suppose you’d consider trading for it? I have a couple of really quality souls, prime stuff. Fetch a good price on the nether-market.”

  “Thank you, no.” Ehomba smiled to show that he was not offended by the offer. “I need all my weapons, and I already have a soul.”

  The demon spat a gooey glob of yellowish brimstone to one side. It struck an ankle-high clump of green weed bursting with tiny purple flowers and promptly set it ablaze. “Everyone can use a spare soul or two. Comes in handy at the moment of Determination. But never mind. I can sense that you’re not the trading type.” Peering around the herdsman, the demonic countenance focused on Simna.

  “You, on the other hand, smell like someone I could do business with.”

  “Maybe another time.” The swordsman ventured a wan smile. “My soul’s all tied up just now.” He pointed to his companion. “With him.”

  “Pity.” Straightening, the demon smiled affably at Ehomba. “I could split your sternum, tear out your heart, and leave you to bleed to death here in the sand.” He shuddered slightly. “But I can tell that you’d spoil it all by resisting, and anyway it’s too cold out this morning for sport. I’ve a ways to go before I dig a hole and make camp.”

  “Since you are not going to kill us,” the herdsman replied good-naturedly, “could you tell us how far it is to the nearest water hole?”

  “Water hole?” The demon eyed him in disbelief, then burst out roaring. It was laughter wild and withering enough to scald bare skin. Indeed, unprotected by fur or learning, Ehomba had to turn away from it to keep himself from being scorched.

  “There’s no water holes in this country. Hot springs, yes, and boiling mud pots, and steaming alkali lakes a being can take a proper bath in—but water holes?” One crimson, clawed finger elongated enough to reach up and over the specter’s skull, pointing to the northwest.

  “Only one place you might find running water, and that’s Skawpane. They got everything in Skawpane. Another month or so and I’ll be due for a visit there myself, depending on how well the prospecting goes.” From the vicinity of the occulted leather bag, small screams bereft of all hope seeped futilely. Simna ibn Sind shuddered. The chill he felt had nothing whatsoever to do with the temperature, perceived or otherwise.

  “What is this Skawpane?” Ehomba asked.

  The demon sniggered at some private joke. “Only decent place in
the Blasted Lands. There’s other flyspecks claim to be, but Skawpane’s the only real town.” Oculi that reflected righteously hellish origins stared into the herdsman’s. “Go there if you dare. If you seek water that’s unboiled and nonpoisonous, that’s the only place you might find it. I guarantee you one thing.” It nodded knowingly. “You and your familiars will be a novelty. Don’t get many mortals in Skawpane.”

  With that, the apparition tipped its hat politely, set it neatly back over the protruding horns, and ambled off down a side gully. In its wake the stink of masticated sulfur and burning brimstone corrupted the air, and boot-prints fused the sand where they had trod into dungy glass.

  Smiling pallidly, Simna was quick to offer a suggestion. “If we ration our remaining water carefully, we might well make it to the base of the mountains.”

  Ehomba considered. “That is what I wanted to believe. But I think now that I was allowing my common sense to be swept aside by optimism and hope. Hunkapa Aub in particular needs a lot of water.” He sighed. “We must make our way to this Skawpane and refill our water bags there.”

  The swordsman was reluctant to concede the point. “How about we just let our common sense be swept, and hope that we find a spring as soon as we strike the foothills?”

  Ehomba pursed his lips disapprovingly. “You are more afraid of what we may encounter in this town than you are of dying of thirst?”

  Simna jerked a thumb toward the gully where the prospecting demon had disappeared. “If that thing was representative of the general citizenry of this particular metropolis, then my answer is yes.”

  It did not matter. He was outvoted. Having followed Etjole Ehomba this far, neither Hunkapa Aub nor the black litah was about to dispute his judgment. That was because both of them were dumb animals, Simna knew, though he was loath to point it out. Grumbling, he hoisted his pack and water bags and followed along.

  Maybe he was worrying needlessly, he told himself. Maybe the demon had been having a little fun at their expense. Skawpane might prove to be a quaint, if isolated, little oasis of a community, its dusty streets shaded by palm trees, its inhabitants serene and content with their lot. Believing this, wanting to believe it, he marched along beside his tall companion with a renewed feeling of confidence. Even if he was wrong and his hopes were to prove unrealized, how bad could it be? A town was a town, with all the familiar urban baggage that implied.

  When they finally reached the municipal outskirts, he saw that he was only partially correct. Skawpane was a community, all right.

  But it was no oasis.

  XVI

  Do we have to go in there?” Simna stood atop the smooth-surfaced, rounded boulder of yellow-white sandstone looking across the flat, hardscrabble plain that separated the travelers from the first outlying structures.

  Ehomba did not squint as he contemplated their imminent destination. He was used to the sun. “Unless you want to chance running out of water before we reach the mountains. I have seen men who tried to reach the coast of Naumkib from the interior but ran out of water before they found a stream or village. Even those who had not yet been located by scavengers were unpleasant to look upon.”

  “A fine choice,” the swordsman grumbled. Resigned, he started down the gentle slope. “Hoy, maybe they’ll have cold beer.”

  After a last, speculative glance, Ehomba followed and caught up to him. “Do you really believe that?”

  “No,” Simna confessed, “but here lately I find that I prefer refreshing delusions to the reality of our actual surroundings.”

  Skawpane turned out to be less appalling from a distance. From the disgusting state of the dirt streets that ran with dull green putrescence to the sewer grates designed to carry off flash floods of mucus, the act of merely walking quickly degenerated into a detestable activity. No edifice rose to a height of more than three stories, perhaps because of the lack of suitable building materials. Storefronts were fashioned of skin tanned to woody toughness by the repeated application of hot blood and salt water. The origin of these skins was a question the travelers by mutual unspoken consent decided not to ask.

  Sidewalks rose a foot or more above the abominable streets. Instead of wooden slats, their planks were fashioned of split bones with the rounded side facing downward. Larger bones such as scapulae had been made into gleaming white shutters that flanked windows of thinly stretched corneas. Occasionally a poorly fashioned pane would blink desperately, reflecting its organic origin.

  There were tall, narrow chimneys made of interlocking vertebrae, though what a home or shop would need with a chimney and fireplace in such a hellish climate Ehomba could not imagine. Troughs of liquid sulfur stood outside several of the establishments. Standing patiently at their hitching rails and nuzzling the noxious, toxic brew they contained were a diversity of infernal steeds. The herdsman saw desiccated horses whose pointed ribs protruded from their sides and whose lower incisors pierced their upper jaws like the tusks of bastard babirusas. All had prominent, protuberant eyes that shone with the madness that resided within.

  Nor were they the only mounts secured or occasionally spiked to the railings. One storefront they passed had a pair of enormous, hirsute hogs roped to a trough at which they rooted ferociously. When these glanced up to espy the travelers, they strove hard to break their bonds. In so doing they exposed mouthfuls of long, sharp teeth that seemed to belong to some other animal. The saddles fastened to their backs were small and narrow, with disproportionately high pommels. What their riders looked like the visitors could only imagine.

  Across the street three elephantine orange-green slugs lay melting in the sun. Their glutinous bodies renewed themselves as they liquefied and they emitted an odor so foul that it rose above all the other myriad stinks that afflicted the noisome concourse. In place of saddles they wore simple handgrips that were buried deep within the slimy flesh itself. Once more, their riders were thankfully conspicuous by their absence.

  That did not mean that the streets were devoid of denizens. While Skawpane would never pass for a bustling metropolis, neither was it a ghost town—though ghosts shared the streets and fronting establishments with the rest of their fellow citizens. In addition to reddish demons who might have been related to the prospector they had encountered out in the layered hills, there were demonic folk of every stripe and color. Some were dressed in styles that would have been considered shocking in cities as far apart as Lybondai or Askaskos, but which in their current surroundings seemed perfectly appropriate. Others were content with plainer attire.

  The population was a mélange of all that was disturbing and horrific, a veritable melting pot of the diabolical. Besides demons and ghosts there were less familiar phantasms, from towering, spindly brown creatures with bulging pop eyes to winged horrors boasting circular mouths that covered their entire black faces. The crows that haunted the tops of buildings and pecked at offal in the streets had membranous wings like bats, and sickly toothed beaks that looked fragile enough to crumble at a touch. A flower-crowned, tentacled horror lazing in a rocking chair made of human bones tracked their progress down this boulevard of horrors with organs that were not eyes. Next to where its feet would have been if it had had feet, a dog-sized lump of multilegged one-eyed phlegm lifted its rostrum and sniveled threateningly.

  Wherever they went and whatever they passed, they attracted attention. Exactly as the prospector had predicted, the arrival of mortals in town was cause for comment. When a tubby yellow blob whose midsection was lined with gaping multiple mouths came bumbling off the sidewalk toward them with self-evident mayhem on whatever it possessed for a mind and both Ehomba and Simna drew swords and proceeded to cut it to pieces, none of the fiendish onlookers voiced a warning or raised an objection. In fact, several evinced what appeared to be evidence of macabre amusement. A few interested horrors that had been considering participating in the anticipated butchery changed their minds at this exhibition of formidable resistance on the part of the visiting quartet.

>   “I need to stop and clean myself.” Repeatedly licking one forepaw, the black litah applied it to his eyes and snout. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so filthy.”

  “It is not the street here that makes one feel unclean.” Striding along, the always curious Ehomba tried to identify the composition of the slimed, slaglike substance beneath his sandals. “It is the atmosphere.”

  “Hunkapa no like,” declared the hairy mass that lumbered along in his wake.

  “We agree on something.” Holding his sword like a long gray flag of warning, Simna put all the confidence and cockiness he could muster into his stride. At the first sign of weakness here, he suspected, the four of them would go down beneath a horde of horrors, torn apart for a midday snack—and that was if they were lucky. It was vital to maintain an appearance of invincibility.

  In this Ehomba was of no help. Ever since they had entered the town, the soft-voiced herdsman had altered nothing. His expression, his posture, the loose, casual manner in which he held his spear: all were unchanged. Whether this seeming indifference was perceived by the ghastly inhabitants of Skawpane as an invitation to feast or supreme confidence in powers they could not descry remained to be seen.

  At least they were not immune to the effects of a well-honed blade, skillfully wielded, the swordsman reflected. He gripped his sword a little tighter.

  “Hoy, bruther, where’s the water you promised us?”

  “Promised?” Ehomba glanced down at his friend. “If you would put food in my mouth with as much ease as you do words, I would never grow hungry again.” Simna might think him detached, but his cool dark eyes missed nothing. “We need to ask someone.”

  “Don’t you mean something?” The swordsman skipped agilely to one side as a crow soaring past overhead relieved itself. The dark red dropping sizzled where it struck the moist, mephitic street.