"Raymond Kaminski - The Amazons of Somelon v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kaminski Raymond)

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The Amazons of Somelon

by

Raymond Kaminski




First published 1981






Chapter 1

Caravan


Tolling like a bell lost in the ruins of some pagan cathedral, the wind drifted in off the desert. It had raged unopposed over the dunes, freezing the life out of salamanders and vipers. Now it wriggled through rock studded hills, searching for more challenging, warmblooded prey in the moonlight. At the mouth of the canyon, the wind grazed a line of Teutite wagons creaking blindly over the rutted road, and there it curled, ready to play out its deadly mischief.

When they heard the wind ringing toward them, the Teutite drivers turned up their fleece-lined collars, tightened the knots in their scarfs, and fortified themselves with long, burning swigs from their wine jars. The reins went slack as the drivers twisted in their seats to tie down the hide flaps that led inside the wagons, where women and children fought to hold a weak grip on sleep amid the lurching, bobbing cargo lining the wooden floors. Left unattended in their yokes, the oxen trudged on, for they knew the road. And they closed their eyes, for they also knew the wind.

Gushing down between the canyon's steep walls, the wind struck them, oxen and men, square in the face, freezing tears into crystals on their lashes. From the head to the tail of the caravan, the wind tore at the covers of the wagons till the stretched skins vibrated as loudly as drums. It buffeted the carts, lifting wheels off the ground and letting them smash back down, then the wind disappeared into the darkness. There it swirled, gathering its forces like so many floating veils, and circled back.

The wind danced, surged, screamed. It was like an invisible swarm of bees piercing through every crevice of leather and wool, till it found the most vulnerable recesses of human flesh and stung them there, mercilessly. The Teutite drivers squirmed, slapped, cursed, and whipped the oxen in frustration, knowing no one could outrun the wind. Then, suddenly, the gale broke off. The caravan was shuttered in a heavy silence.

Above their heads, the wind flew straight up the sides of the canyon, gaining height for the final plunge that would send the wagons reeling. Racing faster, it skimmed along the boulders, uprooting bushes and tearing out small trees as it climbed higher, ever higher, till it reached the crest and crashed into the great scarred face of Micar, master of the Horlas.

Dazed, the wind tumbled around without direction. It swept up and down the ranks of mutated Horlas that lined the canyon rim, sniffed at their ponies, and twirled around their long, crooked lances. Then, as if it had decided to be mad at being surprised, the wind tore through the horde of warriors.

The wind threw sand in Micar's face, and though his black mare staggered, Micar never blinked. The coarse grains dug deep into the soft, white flesh of his eyes that were already tangled with red roots. But Micar never blinked. He was not afraid of sand. He was not afraid of wind.

Roaring through the Horlas, the wind grabbed at their shields. Rattling their curved swords, it pulled at their tar-coated pigtails. The Horlas took no notice. All eyes were focused on the wagons, all ears tuned to the creak of wooden axles. To them, the cold gust was just a pestering child tugging at their legs. So the wind, deflated by this sudden defeat, dispersed into the night.

Micar watched the caravan in the same way that a mongoose watches the cobra, letting it crawl between the mountains where it cannot coil. There were jugs of anal-root wine sloshing inside those wagons. There were bolts of dyed silk, crates of fragrant incense, tasty spices. And there was diamond-studded gold, rubies with fire frozen inside them. There were women. There were also swords and battle-axes pressed into the leathery hands of the Teutites. But Micar was not afraid of dying. No Horla was.

When a star shot across the black sky to embrace the moon, Luna veiled her blush with a cloud, and the caravan was hidden in the shadows. Micar turned to his left.

There he found Allukah, his fourth wife, astride the Arabian charger he had given her on their wedding day, when she was still young and beautiful and slim. Now, foam had started to leak through the gaps in her brown teeth as her huge arms wrestled with the reins, fighting to keep the charger at the head of the line so she could be first to draw blood. Allukah had filled out into a fierce warrior, swinging a mace so large it took two normal men to lift it, and she struck with accurate blows that could shatter a steel helmet, let alone a fragile skull. She was as strong and terrible as Micar himself, the most terrible of the Horlas. Still, she lacked his self control, his subtle wisdom, and that was probably the only thing that prevented her from challenging his position as master of the Horlas. And she was the only one strong enough to challenge him. No man could resist Allukah. No man but Micar.

Micar turned to his right, meeting the flint-hard stare of Amurti, the son Allukah had borne him during the four-day pursuit of the Carabor tribe. That was during the War of Clocks. Allukah had left the saddle only long enough to squat, while a thrashing Amurti struggled out into the light. Then, leaving him in the protection of some blue Boroka nomads, she caught up with the Horlas again.

Amurti shared his mother's ruddy, pockmarked skin, and his beaten-copper helmet poured out the same straggly, reddish-black mane of hair. Yet, when Allukah first came to Micar's great but those many long years ago, she was light skinned and fair. Micar hadn't touched her since she changed. He consoled himself with his other twenty-six wives, and that suited Allukah. She came out only at night to pillage and roam. The daylight hours were spent in her special caves-with her special collection of pets.