GRIM VENGEANCE

Despite the terrible wounds inflicted by the Gamollian raiders, Felic m’Lans was growing stronger every day. He stood on the eastern shore of the island, studying the channel that separated them from the mainland of Antillia. To Queen Gwenay, beside him, the scene was a vague blur of darks and lights.

“There is more snow on the mountains,” Felic said, forgetting that she couldn’t see them. “We will be having snow here before long.”

“Yes. I was cold last night,” she said.

“’We must get to the mainland. We can’t survive here.”

“I know.”

“Even though I don’t feel up to it,” he continued, “I must start building a raft. Our water is almost gone. We must cross the channel as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the more likelihood of being caught in a winter storm.”

“Perhaps some of the Sun-Eagle could be salvaged for a raft,” she suggested.

“We still have the foresail over the lean-to.” Felic’ mused. “I can cut a couple of young trees and rig a raft with a proper mast and yard.”

During the next low tide, Felic waded out to where the charred frames of their yacht, burned by the Gamollian reavers, poked up from the bottom. The lower third of the hull was intact. The rising tide had stopped the fire on both sides of the hull. Felic considered the possibilities. He could try to strip off enough planking to build a raft, or, there was a chance that he could float the bottom section of the hull and use it as a boat.

He called to Gwenay who was on her hands and knees in the shallows blindly feeling for oysters. “All I need to do to float this bottom part of the hull is to remove the ballast stones. Then I’ll bail it out and we’ll have a usable boat.”

“I can help,” she replied. “I don’t have to see to lift stones and drop them over the side.”

They worked side by side for the rest of the day. The heavy toil had sapped Felic’s returning strength and he was soon sound asleep on the sandy beach. He was unaware that Gwenay was nestled beside him.

In her dark world the feel of his muscled arms and torso gave her a feeling of comfort and security. Although she would have welcomed his love, she knew that Felic’s heart belonged to Chessa. She thought of Stet-Arnak, the Dagran priest who had cruelly blinded her with venom. He would pay, she promised.

“We will get to Calix,” she murmured to her sleeping idol, “and when we do I will outfit you for a journey of revenge—all the provisions and weapons you desire.”

With the ballast removed, the hulk lifted off the bottom at high tide. Felic was bouyant for the first time since he was cut down by the Gamollians. He knew that in a few days they could have the water bailed out and a sail rigged. They would beat the winter storms, but more important to Felic, it would be the beginning of a vengeance that was crowding all other feelings from his heart.

They incurred no unlucky or unexpected incidents in their crossing to the mainland, nor on the trek to the Queen’s realm of Calix. Gwenay replaced the missing gem in the Qalandar of N’olla and used its power of renewal to restore her sight. She was once again the alluring beautiful woman that had enchanted Felic when they first met. But that was before Felic fell in love with Chessa. After a few days Gwenay sent Felic away to seek his revenge. With mixed emotions she presented him with a two-handed, double edged sword of Calixian steel tempered and honed by her skilled dwarves. He strapped the scabbard across his broad shoulders. He started to leave, then turned back. He placed his hands on Gwenay’s shoulders and faced her. Her beautiful eyes glittered with tears.

“We may meet again,” he said solemnly.

She only nodded, not trusting her voice.

Then he walked away and followed the dwarf Tword to the tunnel exit of the caldera.

Felic knew the way to Gamollia led through the valley of Fernilin and across the River Varondel. He walked the downward path through the talus of the mountain slope, picking his way, head-down, lost in thought. A tiny drab bird hopped a few paces in advance, admonishing him in staccato sentences. She escorted him to the top of the next ridge, well away from her nest of chicks, before skimming away into the valley below.

He paused. Through the thin spread of morning haze he could see that the valley was tenanted. Fields, pastureland, vineyards and orchards flanked the river that meandered through the bottomland. A sparkling chain of waterfalls plummeted into a lake at the head of the valley. The river, snaking down from the lake, eventually spread into a marshy estuary where it entered the sea.

The valley looked peaceful, even deserted. Felic estimated it would take the entire day to cross it. A curl of smoke from a thicket down the slope caught his eye and he proceeded with caution, hoping to explore its source before being seen. Suddenly the air was filled with the jingling of small bells. He looked down at the cord caught on his foot and cursed himself for not seeing it.

He walked ahead boldly, knowing he was expected. A short way into the thicket he came to a clearing. It was more than an overnight camp; the shelter was sturdy with a daub and wattle wall and hide roof. A cooking fire, burning under a thin sheet of shale, was browning a quartet of battercakes. But there was no one in sight.

“The best of this fine day to you,” Felic hailed, “I come in peace.”

There was no answer.

He tried again, “You should come out and tend your cakes. I do not care to share a burned meal.”

“Perhaps you would share your blood. I have an arrow aimed at the small of your back.” The voice, flat and emotionless, came from close behind.

Felic hesitated, resisting the impulse to react to the challenge. He laughed instead. “Surely, my friend, you have no reason to kill me. I am but a stranger. Just passing by...a little hungry, perhaps.”

“I am not your friend,” the voice replied.

There was a long moment of silence while Felic waited for a surge of anger to subside. He took a deep whiff of the pancake aroma, then he spoke slowly and evenly with veiled impatience. “All right. I have silver. I would like to buy a pair of your cakes.”

The foliage rustled behind him and a slim young man walked around to confront him. His clothing was in garish contrast to the rustic setting, and he held out a bouquet of mountain flowers. “A paying guest is a welcome guest,” he said, bowing extravagantly and waggling the proffered flowers. Felic reached to accept them, but they turned suddenly into a white dove which fluttered up into the branches.

Felic gasped, “What sorcery is this?”

The young fellow displayed a carefully rehearsed enigmatic smile and waved Felic to a seat by the fire. “A mere divertissement. All included in the price of a meal.”

“And your threatening arrow...a poor joke for one only half awake.”

“Oh, the arrow. It’s real enough.” He reached up and picked an arrow out of the air. It seemed to materialize in his hand. He tossed it to Felic.

Felic studied it, dumbfounded. “Who are you?” he asked. “What is this magic you command?”

The young man’s eyes twinkled. His manner was poised; his speech elegant; his self-introduction a performance: “My name is Mystigan...Mystigan the Marvelous, Demon of Deception, of Imposture, of Illusion...Magical Master of Manipulative Legerdemain, and Grand Wizard to the Court of Her Nasty Fat Majesty, Queen Linifern.”

Felic blinked. He took the liberty of turning Mystigan’s cakes which were about to burn, then gave the magician a long stare of disbelief.

“You doubt me?” the young man questioned.

Felic took in the mystic symbols on his robe. “I accept your introduction...but, ah...why? Why would the grand wizard of any court practice such skillful deception in such rude surroundings?”

“My health. My dear health demanded that I seek solitude away from the mad gaiety of the court. So here I am.”

“You appear healthy.”

“True. But I wouldn’t be if I had stayed at the palace.” He gave a conspiratorial wink for emphasis.

“You lost the queen’s favor?”

“Exactly. And the next step was the indelicate cut...the subordinating slash.” He arched his brows. “The loss of my manly jewels by royal edict.” He plopped one cake on to the other and, balancing them on the point of his knife, held them out to Felic.

Felic juggled them from hand to hand while they cooled. “Is that usual with Queen What’s-her-name?”

“Queen Linifern.”

“Yes...does she always use that particular punishment?” Felic continued, “Or did it fit the offense, whatever that might have been?”

Mystigan smiled and sighed. “Most fitting, I’m afraid. I was caught outright. Right in the featherbed of her daughter, the Princess Vayda.” He sighed again. “Such a lovely dumpling she is! Ah...sweet, sweet! My blood rushes in steaming rivers at the thought of her!”

Felic let that go by and attacked the steaming battercakes.

Mystigan rambled on, discoursing on the beauty of Vayda, but Felic’s attention was divided. The rhapsodizing had turned his mind to thoughts of another, Chessa, the exiled Dagran princess who had conquered his heart.

“...and perhaps you would care to tell me something of yourself.”

The young wizard’s words brought Felic back to the present.

“For a beginning: Who are you, and where does your journey lead?”

“My name is Felic m’Lans.”

Mystigan’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean to say...” He paused. “Oh, I see. You were named in honor of the great warrior.”

Felic didn’t answer immediately. He studied his battercakes critically, then looked up. “No,” he answered, his voice low, “I alone carry that name.”

Mystigan was nonplussed, and he avoided Felic’s eyes while he composed himself. “I beg you--excuse my stupidity. I merely thought it very unlikely that one of your fame would have business in this humble valley.” His nervous glance took in the premature lines of sorrow and fresh scars that aged Felic’s face.

Unconsciously, Felic squared his shoulders. The magician’s aplomb was pierced again by an encounter with the steely gray eyes.

“I have no business in your valley,” Felic continued. “I repeat myself. I am just passing through.”

“Yes, of course... just passing through. And your destination is ...?”

Their dialogue was interrupted by sudden shouts from around the clearing and a whir of sound from above. As they jumped up, a great swirling net wrapped around them and took them tumbling off-balance. Instantly, Felic’s dirk was in his hand. He slashed at the cords that tangled about him. Mystigan’s rump had landed in the fire; he howled and swore and struggled to move away from it. His frenzied efforts pulled the net this way and that, hampering Felic’s knife work.

And then the tittering started. As the two men cursed and tugged, it grew into a chorus of feminine giggles and musical laughter. When Felic cut his head and shoulders free of the net, he found a circle of spear points ready to impale him. They were surrounded by a troop of women, uniformed as warriors, with casques and greaves of burnished bronze. They wore short leather tunics armored with rivets, and their eyes were each painted with a thin vertical stroke of black paint that joined their eyebrows to their cheekbones. As he came out of the net, their merriment sobered and they held their spears in a disciplined military stance.

“Cut the wizard loose. His magic seems to have deserted him.” The command, directed at Felic, came from a hawk-nosed woman of middle years. She was stocky, tending to fat, but muscled as any man, and her helmet was crested with black raven wings.

Felic sat astonished. He looked over the circle of warriors. Most were younger than their commander. Some were shapely with pleasant features; some were chubby; some looked awkward and adolescent. His eyes came to rest once again on the stern double chin of their commander, and he burst out laughing. The prick of a spear only tickled him further. Tears ran down his cheeks. A few more spear pricks and he was waving his arms in hysterical surrender while trying to quell his untimely sense of humor.

“Excuse my boorish manners, 0 Fair Ones. I now see by the drip of my own blood that you mean this seriously.”

“Cut the wizard loose!” Hawknose commanded, ignoring his speech.

He obeyed her order, and Mystigan emerged from the net, beating the cinders from his rear and looking quite wild-eyed. He gave Felic a look which seemed to say “whatever-you-are-thinking-don’t-say-it.”

Felic was made to surrender his weapons. He looked on ruefully as they took possession of his dirk and Calixian sword. The two men were manacled--Mystigan with his hands in front and Felic with his hands behind. Then they were lined up--Felic behind Mystigan--and a chain was run under their crotches and locked to their manacles. It was cruelly short. As they moved out they were forced to walk, half-crouching, half-walking, trying to prevent the nip and chafe of the links on their genitals.