“Listen, then; I mean no harm to you or your village. I intend no evil toward any person or community outside the village of Skelleth. I bear no ill will for your mistaken attempts at self-defense. Let us end our dispute peaceably; I will not harm you, but will go about my business. In exchange you will refrain from bothering me further with your petty magic. Is this not fair to all, and a desirable conclusion?”
The Seer said to his comrades, “He speaks the truth as he knows it.”
There was a moment of silent consideration as the elders looked at one another; the larger woman clambered to her feet, then found a chair and seated herself. Garth lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it.
It was the sentry who first spoke, saying, “But what about the prophecies?”
The male elder nodded. “There is that.”
“What prophecies?” Garth said. “I am not an unreasonable person. Explain your meaning, and perhaps I can accommodate you.”
The humans all turned toward the Seer, making plain that they felt it was his place, as Seer, to explain. He obliged.
“There are two prophecies that led us to be especially wary of your coming, overman. The first, made long, long ago, said merely that death and destruction lie in wait in the east, and shall come out of the east in their time. The second, made by my immediate predecessor—who unlike myself, was one of our greatest Seers and prophets; there seems to be an alternation—well, his was an elaboration upon the first, and says that when an overman from the east comes to Dûsarra he will unleash chaos and catastrophe upon the world. You see, therefore, that we do not wish to see you proceed westward from our village, since that road leads only to Dûsarra.”
Garth considered this. It sounded vague to him, and he was reluctant to pay it much heed; he had business in Dûsarra.
“Does the prophecy give my name, or a more exact description?”
“No.”
“Does it say that any overman from the east will bring disaster, or that there will be one specific one?”
“It implies one specific overman, but we prefer not to take chances; you are the first overman to come up the East Road in a very long time, the first since the prophecy was made.”
“I have come from the Northern Waste, though, not from the eastern lands. I have no intention of unleashing anything.”
“I never heard of the Northern Waste; still, it must lie to the east, or you would not have come on the East Road. Your intentions may prove to have very little to do with what actually occurs.”
“Still, I do not think I am the overman prophesied, and I intend to go to Dûsarra. I would advise you not to try to stop me, nor to obstruct me when I return on my way home.”
“We will not bother you once you have reached Dûsarra; it will be too late by then. Anything we might do after that would be pointless revenge, and we are not so foolish as to attempt it. However, I beg you to reconsider. Do not go to Dûsarra! You may not be the overman we were warned of, but why risk it? You are a good man ... Ah, I mean a good person. Do not chance bringing destruction upon yourself and others!”
“I regret that I cannot oblige you. It seems that we will not be able to part as friends after all, and in that case I must ask this young woman to surrender her bow to me; I have no desire to be shot in the back. I will leave it, undamaged, on the road west of the village. I must also insist that no further distracting illusions be used; I know where and who you are, now, and would take it very ill should you attempt to divert me.”
He reached out for the bow; reluctantly, her eye on the sword in his other hand, the girl gave it to him.
“My thanks. I take leave of you now, and wish you all well. I truly hope and believe that I am not the overman your prophets spoke of.” He nodded politely, and backed out of the inn, sword in hand. No one made any unfriendly move, nor any move at all; all five sat in silent dismay.
Once outside, he turned and ran toward where he had left Koros; he had little doubt that despite his warning, some other attempt would be made to stop him, and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the village as he could before the humans could reorganize sufficiently to launch their attack.
His eyes were no longer accustomed to the darkness after his conversation in the lit tavern, and he stumbled on the rough roadway; annoyed, he called his warbeast’s name.
There was an answering growl and the beast appeared in the darkness before him, its golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He sheathed his sword and reached out; Koros obediently stalked up to him. He grabbed the harness and swung himself into the saddle, then gave the signal for a trot—not the warbeast’s fastest pace by any means, but Garth thought it would be sufficient and did not care to risk more in the darkness.
He directed the beast toward the west road, and then paused; how could he be sure it was the true west road, and that the humans had not used another illusion to confuse him? The moon’s position was correct, and the red glow of the volcano lay in the right part of the sky, but he already knew that their illusions were good enough to encompass such details. He carefully reviewed his movements after leaving the inn, and determined that they had not in fact turned anything around—unless they had once again twisted his memories. He doubted that they had had time to do anything of the sort, though of course they could have distorted his time sense as well.
He could not in fact be certain, but after consideration it seemed that it was unlikely the road was illusory, and he had no way of proving whether it was or not. Accordingly, he would assume that no illusions were being perpetrated, and if it later developed that they were, he would come back here and demonstrate to the Seer and the village elders the folly of angering Garth, Prince of Ordunin.
He signaled for a trot again, and rode swiftly out of the village, away from the crossroads and the dimly-lit inn.
Chapter Five
The farmer had told him that it was three leagues from Weideth to Dûsarra; that was over an hour’s ride, but a glance at the sky and some calculation indicated that he could still make it by midnight, with luck. It depended in large part upon how tired Koros was. So far, the creature showed no signs of fatigue at all.
They were leaving the village, passing the last few houses that straggled out along the road, when Garth glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye; he ducked, instinctively, and the shadowy batlike form that swooped at him swept silently by, its glittering black talons inches from his face.
The girl’s bow was still clutched in one hand; he flung it aside, wishing he had taken her arrows as well, and dove from the warbeast’s back, drawing his sword as he landed rolling on the rocky highway. Ahead and above, the bat-thing wheeled and came at him again.
He got a good look at it as it attacked; it was not a true bat at all. Its wingspread was a good ten feet, and though its wings were stretched leathery hide like a bat’s, its body and head were those of a bird of prey, round black eyes and hooked black beak making up the face, outstretched talons gleaming. He ducked under its lunge again and brought his sword up to meet it.
The sword passed through it unhindered, leaving no mark, meeting no resistance.
The tension left Garth’s body; he grinned and stood upright. The thing was another illusion, of course, not even a particularly clever one. Did they expect him to cower away from the thing without fighting?
Apparently they did, or they wouldn’t have sent it. He turned back toward Koros, preparing to remount, ignoring the bat-thing that wheeled and dove.
Its claws ripped his helmet from him and raked bloody furrows across the back of his head.
He swung around again, sword ready, growling in pain and anger; his sudden turn sent spatters of blood flying from his wounds. They were real, no doubt about it, and painful, but not deep. The elders of Weideth had more magic than mere illusion at their disposal.
The thing was coming in for another pass; he dodged and swung at it with his sword. As before, the blade passed through the monster as if it were
a mere shadow. Garth growled.
On the next pass he dodged again, and lashed out not with his sword, but with his free hand, clutching at the thing’s leg. His hand closed on nothing but air, and the claws raked his wrist.
This began to be serious; although not too bright, the thing was persistent and would eventually tire him out and claw him to pieces. It seemed to possess a curious one-way tangibility like nothing Garth had ever encountered. He had thought it might have some protection against cold steel when the sword had no effect, but his hand had been equally incapable of touching it. Hand and sword had passed through its body without touching it, yet its claws had made themselves felt twice.
Its claws had been felt—but only the claws! Even when Garth had left himself completely undefended in the mistaken belief he was dealing with an illusion, it had not used its great evil beak, nor struck him with its wings—wings that made no sound and created no wind.
As it turned for another assault, Garth studied its talons; they glinted in the moonlight unlike any claws he had ever seen, a glassy black sheen rather than the sparkling highlights of polished bone or nail. They were not smoothly curved, nor scaled and jointed, but twisted and jagged. They looked very much like some sort of glass or crystal rather than part of a living creature.
It swept down upon him again, those strange black talons outstretched, and Garth’s sword came up to meet it, not sweeping through its intangible belly this time, but striking at the talons themselves.
He was rewarded with a tinkling crash as his blade struck and reduced one great spiked claw to a shower of glittering splinters.
The creature’s mouth opened, as though to cry in pain, but no sound emerged; it swept up and away from him and circled briefly.
He took a moment to stoop and pick up a shard of the shattered claw; now that he held it in his hand, he could readily identify it. It was obsidian—black volcanic glass. It was quite tangible and ordinary.
Overhead the thing seemed to recover itself, and dove at him again.
This time he made no effort to dodge, but simply held up his blade horizontally before his face and kept it steady with both hands as the full force of the creature’s claws smashed into it. The obsidian talons shattered spectacularly, sending glassy needles spraying in every direction; a few slivers stitched tiny cuts across his hands or spattered from his breastplate. His face was protected by the blade, but his eyes closed instinctively.
When he opened them again the creature was gone, the only trace of its existence the splinters of volcanic glass that lay scattered about, glistening in the moonlight.
He brushed himself off, sheathed his sword, retrieved his helmet, and looked about. No new threat was apparent, Koros was unharmed, and his own injuries were minor. He mounted the warbeast, then turned, and bellowed back toward Weideth.
“Seer, if you can hear me, be warned! If you send anything else against me, destruction will indeed be unleashed, as I will wipe your village from the earth! Hear me, and be warned!”
There was a faint echo of his shout from the hills on either side, but no other reply. He turned westward once more and rode on.
Chapter Six
Something over an hour later he emerged from between two hills to find himself with a clear view of Dûsarra crowning the long, smooth slope that rose in front of him. Moonlight glimmered from the city’s domes and towers, a soft silver that seemed to give no light at all; comparing the silhouetted buildings with the smoky red sky behind them, Garth realized that they were all dead black in color, and that therefore even the brightest moonlight could not illumine them. The city was walled, though Garth thought it unlikely any wars were ever fought in such rugged land; the wall, too, appeared to be built of the same black stone. In the poor light Garth could not see where the wall ended and the ground below began; the slope before him appeared to be a smooth sheet of darkness that blended into the city without break. Peering closely, Garth realized that the hillside was, in fact, an ancient lava flow; it was a single vast slab of stone, where nothing grew. The road he followed ended at its foot, leaving the traveler to follow whatever route he chose across that rocky expanse.
He urged his mount forward onto the stone; Koros obeyed without protest. They had come to the end of the fresh cinders a league or so back, where the road had curved toward the north; whichever volcano had thrown them up, it was apparently not the one that towered above Dûsarra, lighting the sky before them a murky red.
As they made their way up the slope, something caught Garth’s eye; there was something about the city wall that didn’t look right. He stared harder, and saw it again; there was a glimmer of light directly in front of them, apparently in the middle of the wall. Could someone be camped in front of the gate? It was possible, but the light somehow didn’t look like a campfire, nor did it look to be on the slope outside the walls. A window in the wall, perhaps, with a lighted guardroom beyond? That might be, except that it must be an inordinately large window to be so visible at this distance; although difficult to judge exactly at night, Garth was sure there was still another mile or so of this rocky slope to be climbed.
A few moments later he realized what it was; the city gates were open, and the square just inside was lit all around with torches.
It was very nearly midnight, yet Dûsarra’s gates were wide open, as if it were noon of market day. Garth wondered what kind of strange city he was approaching; could this be some sort of religious festival? Were they so trusting of strangers that they left the gates open at all times? If that was it, then why were the walls maintained, and why was the market lit? No, that could not be the reason, for he could make out vague shapes moving about; there were people there, just exactly as if the city’s inhabitants were going about their ordinary business in the dead of night. He began to hope that it was, in fact, some kind of holiday or religious event; that at least would be understandable.
It suddenly struck him that his stealthy nighttime approach wasn’t going to make much difference after all. Well, he thought, at least by torchlight it would be less obvious that he was an overman than it would be at noon. But then again, a city that lived by night might well sleep by day, and he might have done better to approach by daylight.
No, that was absurd; there had to be some sane reason for this nocturnal activity. He could not imagine what it could be, but there must be one. He’d know soon enough; he gave up wondering and rode on.
Dûsarra, he decided as he rode through the gate, was a very strange city, at least by his standards; but then, he had not actually traveled that much. Outside his own land he had seen only Skelleth, Weideth, and Mormoreth, and from a distance Ur-Dormulk; Mormoreth was a dead city, Skelleth might as well be, Weideth was only a village, and Ur-Dormulk he had not gone within a mile of. Perhaps Dûsarra was normal, and the others strange. He halted his mount, and looked about the square he found himself in.
It was a fairly conventional marketplace; merchants, stalls lined every side, each with torches illuminating it, one or two torches per stall. The market was busy; men and women strolled about or rushed, haggled over prices, gossiped with friends, and generally did whatever people ordinarily did in a city market. Only the stars overhead and the flickering torchlight made the scene seem unnatural.
Garth noticed with interest that the natives dressed differently from the people of Skelleth; where the men of Skelleth wore tunic and trousers and the women wore blouse and skirt, here both sexes wore long, shapeless robes. The poverty-stricken people of Skelleth could afford only the drabbest of dyes, but here Garth saw many attired in blood-red as well as the more usual browns, grays, white and black. The majority seemed to be wearing a dark blue shade; the current fashion, no doubt, or perhaps representative of some social class. Many had hoods pulled up over their heads.
Well, he should be able to blend in reasonably well; although for most of the journey he had worn openly his breastplate, helmet, and mail, with his sword on his belt—a welcome change from the scr
atching hilt of his stiletto, which was packed away in his bundle of supplies—he had had the foresight to throw his rough brown cloak on before approaching the city. The trader’s hat he had worn in Skelleth was not appropriate here; none of the natives wore any headgear but the loose hood. His cloak naturally included a hood, though he had never had occasion to wear it. He pulled it up, then paused; he would already stand out as remarkably tall, and should do nothing to exaggerate his height. He removed his helmet, then pulled the hood into place before stuffing the headpiece into the pack behind him.
As yet, he had seen no sign that anyone had noticed his presence, which was all to the good; they were all too busy with their own concerns. It was odd that there was no guard on the gate, though.
He dismounted and ambled casually forward, stooping to disguise his height, hoping that in the uneven torchlight no one would notice that he wasn’t human. They would, of course, notice Koros; there was no disguising a warbeast. But there was also no cause to object strenuously to a warbeast, most particularly since these people probably had no idea what one was.
Of course, he wouldn’t want to take the beast along when he went temple-robbing; he would have to find an inn with a good stable. Besides needing a place to leave Koros, he was hungry and thirsty, and a tavern would undoubtedly be a good place to pick up information about the temples, as well. It seemed reasonable that there would be an inn facing on the square, convenient to the gate but, studying the shadowy stone façades behind the merchants’ stalls, he could see no signboards indicating one, nor other evidence of one’s existence. With a mental shrug, he stepped up to the nearest stall, where a silk dealer debated the value of a bolt of his best bleached fabric with a would-be buyer.
He waited politely until the two arrived at a mutually satisfactory price; then, while the customer carefully counted out his hoarded coins, he inquired of the merchant, “Is there a good inn to be found near here? I have traveled far.”
The Seven Altars of Dusarra Page 6