Avenger, page 19
part #2 of Swords and Skulls Series
Vetra heard trickling water up ahead. Also the patter of feet and restless flap of wings. Rats? Bats? The sounds had him shivering and they halted, ears pricked. Eyes darted overhead at a sudden movement. The dark flitting shape of a buzzard passed over the moon; in the open spaces above, dim stars hung in the night sky.
Vetra urged them on down the cracked, stone-paved path. Balir frowned at the fantastic carvings on the walls—gargoyles, seraphims, the heads of giraffes, turtles, various other wild beasts, all chiselled in marvellous detail by masterful tools. He scratched the stubble on his chin, eyes seeking any hidden threats in the shadows draping the carvings. Kalaman pulled at his golden hair, fingers hooked on the hilt of his scimitar. Laskar said no word, but his hand clutched tensely at his crossbow.
A lone torch burned from a bracket in the wall. The smell of rank pitch came to Vetra’s nostrils. Who had lit it? Other torches had been lit and hung on the richly-hewn walls in niches at curious intervals.
On they shambled, each feeling a sensation of crawling unease.
As the priest had mentioned, an arched way opened on the wall to the right. Ahead the path petered out to utter blackness.
“The end of the line,” Kalaman murmured.
Vetra peered through the arch, grimacing as he might look into the lair of a man-eating spider. The trickling of water grew louder, and as they passed through the portal, two pools glimmered into view on the far side of the chamber abreast the wall. Twin waterfalls spilled down the cliff facing them to make a small wake in the pools. The waters were of two different colours—dark crimson and yellow umber. Several torches lit the chamber’s high ceiling.
They advanced on wary feet, weapons gripped, lips parted in scowling wonder. The pools were deep, Vetra noticed, without discernible bottom. He took careful steps while Laskar crept close on his heels with one hand gripping a ring on the conch and Kalaman stalked behind him, hoisting the back ring.
Ancient bird statues jutted out in fiendish synchrony from the walls at regular intervals with parted beaks. Hawks? Falcons? The statues had heavily muscled male-torsos and claw-like feet. A few ranged over seven feet tall. In the looming stone above, more anthropomorphic shapes stood carved out of polished onyx and dolomite and leered down with little welcome.
Vetra recalled the inquiries he had made about the legend of the falcon god. Local bards had sung of a prince of Araham who long ago had wanted to fly. He had become so obsessed with the thought that he had sought out a dark wizard to fulfil his wish. Prince Dapi was enslaved by the very magic that gave him his wings and talons. The wizard forced Dapi to do his bidding and the prince became like a god, enacting terrible deeds by the light of the moon, worshipped by votaries by day, and thus the wizard gained power and acclaim beyond measure. As to what happened to the wizard, nothing is known for certain, but it is said his passing was not a pleasant one. The legend spoke thus, and so the crumbling mausoleum of the wizard had writ on its entablatures. The deathless God-Prince Dapi lived on, shunned by man and beast while the cursed mausoleum was forgotten.
The legend was no more fantastic than any of the hundred others that floated on the lips of jackleg bards and skalds about the lands.
Balir fingered his blade with a nervous glance. “I have bad feelings about this, Vetra. All these tons of rock, all these vile faces embedded in the stone...how can they bring anything but a curse upon us?”
Vetra exhaled a soft breath. They did look down on them as if he and his men were no more than mice for the taking.
“And this baneful thing you clutch. What is it?” mumbled Balir.
“A thing to contain and bind the statue.”
Balir gave a sceptical grunt. “A cursed relic the wizard gave you for no good, or gain.”
“Why don’t we just split the talons Caglios gave you?” suggested Kalaman. “Leave the old goat in the lurch, and the idol here for Iokru and his ghouls to fight over.”
Vetra’s eyes smouldered. “After all the trouble we have gone through? What of our oath? The dangers of crossing the wizard are not small?” He scowled through his teeth. “Still, there is something in what you say. I promised the spellcaster I would deliver and I am generally a man of my word—unless thieves and liars double-cross me.”
“You’re a stupid fool, Vetra,” snorted Kalaman. “Your code of honour will get us killed. I don’t trust the wizard. What do we owe him? And I like not this chamber. I would not revisit it or this temple maze for a thousand talons!”
“Gather your wits about you,” growled Vetra. “Are we rodents or men? Let’s finish this. Swear on it again!”
With grudging murmurs, they did. Vetra’s eyes probed the shadow-chased ceiling. He thought at one time this place had been a cave; but for the pool and faint mist spray, the chamber was mostly bone dry. He traced fingers along one of the statues, a horned falcon thing with long, pointed beak. It was poised on human legs and torso, possibly a depiction of Dapi in elder times. The stone was smooth to the touch, remarkably smooth. The realism was astounding, Vetra thought, and a chill ran up his back, for it was carved almost with uncanny skill, as if stone could become living flesh at any moment. He stepped back, expecting the shape to flutter to life. But it did not.
His eyes wandered. He figured the waterfalls came from some spring higher up in the sprawling mantle of rock. They were two hundred feet down in the canyon, he estimated, judging from the patch of open sky that allowed a grudging moonlight. Stalactites pricked down from the rest of the ceiling which had been carved and polished into the shape of sharp teeth. A grotesque bat-like falcon looked hewn out of nothingness in those shadowy spurs. Vetra gave a shudder.
A swish of feet alerted them. Wheeling, the mercenaries gave ground with cold steel swift in their hands. A hunched form shambled forth from a dimly-lit archway somewhere in the back of the chamber.
A woman...though this one was no beauty, with hunch-back, and drooping ears peeking from a wisp of thinning silver hair. She seemed like an old fossil dug from the deep passages. Waist and torso were clad in thick, rough furs. Her skin was dewlapped on the throat. Apart from some furs wrapped about torso and waist, the rest of her withered body was naked. Though she shuffled like a century old turtle, her lustrous eyes burned with a glare of intelligence.
“Who are you, woman?” called Vetra, stepping closer.
“I am Nimeska,” she answered. “I was born and raised here in the canyons. So my father, and his father before him.”
“You gave us a right jolt, sneaking up on us like that,” grunted Vetra. He re-sheathed his blade.
She chuckled a rich, gravelly laugh. “I am grateful for your indulgence. Wherefore do you come to Dapi’s sanctuary? Nobody but me has come into this chamber for years. ’Tis not usual to see the like of outlanders—and armed ones at that.” She gestured at their bared weapons. Her eyes raked the magnificent conch gleaming under the torchlight.
“We have a private errand to attend here.”
“Oh?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion and surprise.
Vetra motioned. “And you? What’s your business here?”
“I light the altar, nothing more, as is our custom in this temple city of Gyzia. If any altar remains unlit or untended, a terrible curse will fall on us.” Her cheeks flushed the colour of old redwood.
“It seems a harsh reward,” Balir observed.
“Another old wives’ tale,” spat Kalaman. He struck off, staring critically at the sinister statues and the two pools lurking by the far wall. The water that trickled down the face into the twin pools tinkled like skeleton fingers on ivory.
“Tell me, why does Dapi sit idle, Nimeska, while the other gods in these temples burn with so much oil and fire?” inquired Vetra.
The old temple keeper thought for a while and shrugged. “’Tis rumoured that a century passed and the falcons flew to the other side of the earth, and with them the spirit of Dapi. The cult died with it—” she sighed through her crooked teeth “—their messengers had abandoned them who were their very sources of power. The oracle of Sarle would have thoughts on the matter. Yet she hasn’t been seen in years.”
“I heard the legend had something to do with a prince,” Vetra ventured.
Nimeska croaked out a sound of amusement. “Well, your version is as good as mine.” Her harsh laugh was hoarse as a crow’s. “Do your mysterious deeds as you must, mercenary. I have no doubt it has something to do with a transfer of coins from one man’s greedy clutch to another. But desecrate not the altars or sacred places of the old ones! Nergid, the wizard who gave Dapi his godlike powers, sleeps, but he is not dead. Aye, they both sleep—” she trailed off, staring wild-eyed at the conch on the floor and Vetra believed the old crone had guessed his dark purpose. “I feel a plague in the air tonight,” she whispered. “This very temple stirs with madness—perhaps an evil that you have brought with you.”
Balir grunted an oath. “Careful what you speak, woman, or I’ll—”
But Vetra waved him back. With an understanding nod, he smiled, sensing an ally in this odd-mannered temple keeper. “We have a deed to perform here, as you have no doubt already guessed. I hope you could advise us on it.”
The old keeper pushed forth palms adamantly. “I wish no part of your rites. Dark purpose lingers in it. I smell death and danger in your presence. This fancy case you tote—what is it?” Shuffling forward, she patted its curled lid before Vetra could retract it and she leaned over it, starting curiously at the dull echoes of something apparently large inside.
“I know—” She tapped her nose. “It has something to do with Dapi.” She gusted out a loud grunt. “Be on your guard. Dapi is not a kind god. Ratmen abound and pad through these dark ways like restless vermin. ’Tis the hour of the rodent. I feel them skulking and crawling...”
“You’re a bundle of joyous news, old woman,” chided Kalaman. “Give us something positive to mull over in this house of horrors.”
The keeper fixed the mercenary a dark look. With a weary sigh, she shuffled up the passage from where she had come, humming to herself an unsettling tune.
Balir gave a dour chuckle. “Well, so it goes. Shall we slit our throats now, or simply fall on our swords?”
Vetra gestured with impatience. “Quiet. Let’s get this ‘baptism’ over with.”
“To hell with baptism!” roared Kalaman. “Are you insane, Vetra? I say we leave this cursed thing here and buck Caglios’s charge. Keep our gold.”
“The priest Iokru, is gone,” mumbled Balir. “I agree. No support from that slinking jackal. Nothing but a load of mumbo jumbo comes from his lips every time he speaks.”
“There are merits to your arguments,” mused Vetra. He pulled at his chin, but the warning of Caglios and the priest had him warring with indecision. “Let’s douse the wretched idol with some of this lighter-coloured water and be done with it.” Vetra’s mouth sagged as he watched Balir start to hack and pry at the lips of the clam. “Are you daft?” he cried.
“Trying to get a peek at it.”
“You’ll damage the figurine!”
Vetra strode over to help his impatient henchman and together they pried open the shell. None of them repressed a gasp of horror and disgust. They lifted the statue gently on its side and set it upright beside the crimson pool. The thing was a repulsive monstrosity, having a falcon’s head, a set of leprous human hands and arms as well as bat-like wings folded over its stone-ribbed back. Clawed feet with four-taloned toes had the squat thing standing at half a man’s height, nursing a malevolent look with hungry, down-turned eyes and a vicious, pointed beak. It had every look of some stony devil from a primeval time.
Balir examined it with a shudder. “’Tis an ugly thing.”
“You think?” Kalaman grunted, his fingers twitching. “Surely this old mallard won’t win any beauty awards.” He pressed his palms together in distaste.
Balir gestured. “Now the business with these pools—which one? Over there, one that tinkles red like blood and one slightly less murky over here, which could be old, spoiled egg yolk.”
Vetra’s eyes glazed over. “The wizard was vague in this regard.”
“Just what we need, a nebulous wizard. So we choose from ‘rot’ or ‘blood’.”
“I opt for ‘blood’,” Laskar murmured. He had stepped out of the shadows and hefted his grim, steel-sprung bow with a decisive grin.
The other men blinked at him, unused to the archer offering any input at all.
Vetra lifted a hand in resignation. “On with it.” He produced the collar and stepped forward. “Let me cincture this thing around its neck first. My mind seems hazy on the details. The wizard’s instructions seemed clear-cut at the time.”
“Give me that!” Balir called impatiently and snatched the collar out of Vetra’s hand. “I’ll sling it around this cursed thing’s neck, while you cup your hands under that waterfall and splash it some then we’ll lug it back here—”
“Listen!” Vetra rasped, reaching for his weapon. “Enemies about. Quick!”
Kalaman crouched on the balls of his feet while Laskar ducked, eyes probing the murk. A patter of feet echoed in the corridor. The mercenaries ran fleet-footed to the archway.
Balir wheeled and stuffed the collar in his pocket.
Booted feet thudded in the stony darkness. Hitching forward, Vetra and Kalaman gripped hilts and ducked to either side of the portal, raising their blades. Four rat-masked priests burst in, howling in frenzy and menacing Balir and Laskar with spears. But the big warriors hidden to the side plunged steel through their fur-clad chests. They were cut down to a man to fall screaming in pools of blood.
More rat-masks rushed in from behind, tripped unexpectedly over the fallen bodies.
Kalaman stepped in and parried multiple knife thrusts, his scimitar flashing scarlet ruin. He hacked a hissing attacker from sternum to groin, while Laskar aimed his bow and loosed a bolt into his companion’s chest. Not before the man had hurled a knife. The missile stuck in the archer’s upper arm, the leather from his jerkin catching the knife’s point. Laskar pulled it out and hurled the blade back with his good arm into another’s throat. A gurgle of pain echoed in the dimness and a tall figure with rat-mask fell like a stone.
Kalaman and Vetra hacked at enemies who pushed through the arch and Balir joined in the melee. Some uttered ghastly shrieks, others died horribly, blood jetting, screaming last breaths to their rat god. Kalaman stumbled dripping blood like a wounded animal from a spear stab just below his shoulder.
A desperate hand grabbed at Vetra’s sword, but Kalaman turned and slashed, carving an arm off at the elbow. He roared out a foul oath.
Priests were pouring in like moths. Balir smashed a fist into a masked face. A hole tore through the garishly-pigmented wood. Balir rushed through the knot of attackers, but was pushed back toward the pool with Vetra cursing and shouting.
One of the ratmen staggered backward into the idol which crouched, staring fiendishly in the glare of the flickering torches. The jade falcon teetered and toppled backward into the pool with a great splash.
Vetra cried out. He lunged for the thing, but the idol sank from sight in waters glimmering red in the wake of magical currents. It was impossible to get the thing out—a commission that was worth three bags of gold. Vetra was too harassed with stabbing foes to make any difference. He lurched back, blade rasping against steel, while dying men reeled about in agony.
Two snarling attackers hustled to bring him to the ground. But Balir jumped in, tore the weapon from one’s hands and twisted to confront the other. While their feather-plumed headdresses bobbed in waves of blood fury, he speared a gibbering man with his own weapon through the guts. The other he kicked sprawling into the blood-red pool.
Vetra turned, croaking out a low moan of anguish. He saw a strange, nightmarish shape materialize from the water and settle aside the pool—a stocky, brazen, avian-like mass. Could it be possible?—it was Dapi! The stone idol had come to life, changed in some way he could not fathom. Bigger and more menacing? and more gruesome. How had the thing—? But he wheeled, the breath catching in his throat. The statue was of solid jade, but the beak glowed dark crimson and had hooked on a corpse fished out from the pool.
Vetra and Balir and several of the priests watched on as the stone god rose before their eyes. Its lustreless wings bearing its weight a few feet off the ground, it brought itself down again on the bloody floor with a delicate precision. Four-toed claws clacked like goat hoofs on the stone. But was it a god or some demon? Vetra backed away with indecision. The creature tossed off the corpse with an indifferent croak and shake of its gore-flecked beak. Vetra’s throat groped for a cry that would not come. He scrabbled back in mute horror, thinking to himself he must be in a depraved dream.
The idol had grown a foot higher. Now it was broader and brimmed with a lurid orange aureole.
Vetra drew back his blade and swung in a wide circle, making ruin of an eager priest’s face and another’s knife arm. “Quick!” he shouted through bloody teeth at his comrades. “Snap the collar round its neck. Balir, hurry! The thing has risen. We can’t hold off these fiends any longer.”
Balir glared at Vetra with an awe-filled glance. “Seriously?” He ducked a jabbing spear and gripped the collar in a white-knuckled fist. He moved nimbly toward the stone god, dripping crimson from the pool. Bright blood smeared the evil, cone-like beak which had skewered the corpse.
“Here, birdie, birdie, birdie,” Balir called in mocking tone. He stooped to snap the iron ring around the beast’s neck. But there came a sharp movement and the blur of stone and beak. The mercenary’s eyes widened in sudden horror.
Vetra whirled in astonishment to catch a glimpse of the thing vaulting in the air. It came to hawk-like life with beak snipping out a hedge-clipper’s violence. There came a horrible cry of pain as two of Balir’s fingers thunked to the pavestones. He reeled back, barely avoiding the fiend’s thrusting beak while holding his hand which jetted blood.
