Lords of Destruction by James Silke, Frank Frazetta Page B

gathering for the
performance.
    They had not seen a wagon or riders on their ride, and now, as they searched
through the shadowed trees, they found no fresh wagon tracks or ground cover
crushed by horses’ hooves.
    Moving covertly, they walked their horses down between massive boulders and
trees into a natural enclosure formed by towering rocks. Leaving their horses
there, they continued covertly down a gully. The sounds of the river and the
chatter of the gathering crowd grew louder, then the jangle of tambourine, the
vibrating notes of harps and the wail of flutes being tuned.
    Jakar and the bukko shared a worried glance. The performance was about
to begin.
    Reaching exposed ground, they dropped on all fours and scrambled forward to a
cluster of large boulders set in a bed of brown needles. They climbed the
largest boulder and inched forward, looking over it.
    Twenty feet beyond the rock, the Grillard wagons were parked among a thin
spread of pines and oaks. Just beyond them the spur thrust bluntly out into the
river forcing it to make a sharp turn, and forming the pond. The entertainers
were moving animatedly among the trees on the crest of the spur, taking their
positions. They moved with their normal excitement, indicating there had been no
trouble and that they expected none.
    Brown John and Jakar relaxed slightly, relieved, and the young nobleman could
not repress a grin.
    The wagons were all painted and decorated with florid pinks, yellows, purples
and greens, and the Grillards themselves were adorned in an even more vivid
fashion, in lemon-yellow feathers, rouged breasts, formidable codpieces and all
manner of baubles, bangles and bells. The cumulative impression was that of an
unreal world where color and laughter were the staples, instead of steady work
and regular meals.
    Brown John whispered, “We’re in time.”
    Jakar nodded and started to edge back off the rock. “I’ll go warn her.”
    “No! You stay here and keep out of sight. I want her safely hidden until I
know who and what we’re up against. And I know how to handle her. You don’t.”
    The sounds of beating drums and tambourines rang through the trees in a
musical fanfare, and the unseen audience on the opposite side of the river
cheered excitedly, howling and whistling.
    “It’s starting,” blurted Brown John, and slid back down the rock, scraping
his hands and chest.
    Jakar’s grin was gone now. “Hurry, old man,” he whispered. “Hurry!”
    The bukko, holding his tunic above his knobby knees, ran and leapt
through trees and rocks like a jackrabbit in heat, vanished behind shrubbery,
then reappeared at the back of a large yellow house wagon. Gasping and puffing,
he rose stiffly and walked carefully toward the wagon’s door. He reached it
without being seen, opened it and hurriedly climbed in, closing it behind him.
    Jakar waited, taut and frowning with concern, then looked about sharply as
drums boomed somewhere.
    Above the tree canopy, showers of arrows soared into the sky directly above
Clear Pond. Streamers trailed behind them forming a rainbow of greens that
arched against the sky-blue void, then started down. Before they vanished beyond
the trees, their arrowheads were whistling as air passed through them. The crowd
cheered. The drums boomed. Tambourines, flutes and harps began a rousing song,
and everyone, Grillards and audience, began to sing the bawdy lyrics of “The
Women of Boo Bah Ben.”
    Jakar chuckled with youthful mockery and watched as five nubile girls burst
out of an orange wagon and scattered through the trees toward a position
upriver. They carried small wooden rafts with rope handles and wore just about
enough scalelike jewels to clothe their natural jewels, not counting their
backsides, which were marvelously naked. Their hair had been dyed a luxurious
red-gold, in exact imitation of Robin Lakehair’s.
    Jakar rose slightly, making sure Robin was not among them, and the girls