The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The solution to his quandary arrived suddenly, just as the perfect moment passed and the men began to recover their nerve; in a single silent bound, Koros cleared the stable wall, rebounded from the roof with a spray of shards of tile shattered by its weight, and landed atop three of the Dûsarrans. They died without knowing what had hit them, as the warbeast’s claws shredded robes, armor, and flesh; the crunching of bone was audible throughout the stableyard over the triumphant roar that Koros released as it struck. The swords the three men had held flew from their hands and clattered on the armor of their companions behind them; one laid open a man’s scalp before falling aside.

  Not satisfied with the single attack, Koros leapt again, a short, powerful pounce that smashed another man to the ground so suddenly that the man behind him went down as well, his leg trapped beneath the falling body even as he turned to flee. The first man was ripped open from forehead to groin by a slash of the warbeast’s fangs as the second lay screaming, pinned beneath the weight of the monster’s forepaws on his companion’s corpse. As an afterthought, one of those great velvet-padded paws licked out, in a motion identical with that of a kitten batting a ball of yarn, and the beast’s curving claws snatched the screamer’s head off, spraying blood across the heels of his fleeing comrades.

  Garth stood on the rooftop, virtually forgotten, and watched as the crowd of warriors vanished back through the arch into the street. The huge broadsword hung loosely in his hands as Koros, with a brief gaze at the fleeing Dûsarrans, declined to pursue and settled down to feast on the five it had slain. It licked its claws daintily, cast a glance of its slit-pupilled eyes at its overman master, and began eating.

  When a moment had passed with no further attention paid him and no sign of a renewed assault from without, Garth tossed the sword to the ground, then cautiously lowered himself over the eaves and dropped down into the yard.

  The gathering dusk had shrouded the stables in semi-darkness, and he had no way of making a light; he peered through the gray gloom at the familiar stall, and made out the pale oval of Frima’s face above the door. He strode up to her, and found she was staring fixedly, mouth gaping, at Koros as it chewed contentedly on a human thighbone.

  “We must get out of the city,” he said.

  She said nothing, but continued to stare. Her mouth closed; her throat worked, making no sound, and her jaw fell open again.

  “Our best hope is to ride Koros. It can probably carry both of us faster than we could move on foot, and we need not worry about separation.”

  She was silent for a second longer, then blinked and turned toward the overman. “Ride that?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Yes. It is the same animal you petted yesterday, and now that it has eaten, it should give us no trouble.”

  Her gaze turned back to Koros who, having eaten its fill, was licking its paws clean, then traveled across the fragmentary remains of its victims, to rest at last on the severed head that had rolled, unwanted and unnoticed, across the yard, to lie against the wall beside the arch. Her mouth twitched, and she turned away to vomit on the dirty straw that floored the stall.

  Garth waited patiently until she had finished, then said, “It would be helpful if you would aid in loading the supplies.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Although it was plain from the rattle of armor, the mutter of voices, and an occasional quick glimpse through the arch that a considerable body of armed men lurked in the street in front of the inn, there were no further attacks nor attempts to enter the stableyard. Koros was completely docile once he had eaten his fill, and Garth had no trouble in loading and tying down all his remaining supplies and the sack containing the assorted loot from the first five temples—excluding Frima, who remained nervous and reluctant to approach the warbeast. When that was done, he found a place for the great sword, slipping it into the harness in such a way that its oversized blade ran along the beast’s right flank, with the hilt at its neck. It would not be very accessible, but it would be secure; Garth was much more willing to trust their defense to Koros than he was to try and hang onto the awkward weapon while riding at high speed. When that was in place, he lifted Frima onto the back of the saddle, and swung himself up into position in front of her.

  His current plan was simplicity itself; he and Frima would hang on as best they could while Koros made a dash for the city gate. The Dûsarrans had not yet had much opportunity to see the warbeast in action, and it was Garth’s hope that they would be unable to do anything to stop such a dash. There was always the chance that a lucky archer would put an arrow through the beast’s eye, or through his own throat, or through some part of the unarmored girl behind him, but he could see no way to avoid that risk.

  He made a final check of the knots and buckles securing everything, adjusted his own seat, and reminded Frima to hold on well; then he leaned forward and spoke in the warbeast’s triangular ear the single word that meant, “Take us home.”

  It snorted, and padded silently out into the yard; it circled once, studying its surroundings, and then, with no warning, launched itself upward.

  It landed on the now-familiar roof with a crunching of broken tiles, continued forward with a shorter leap to the brink overlooking the street, then dove over the edge into the street, ignoring the crowd of humans.

  Garth had expected the warbeast to take that route, but the actual fact was nothing like the expectation; never before had he been subjected to such sudden changes in velocity and direction, such abrupt rising and falling, and his firm grip on the harness seemed suddenly very precarious. His stomach churned with the movement; he had once been in a storm at sea—or at any rate while aboard a ship, though technically it had been in a sheltered bay and not on the high seas—and the seasickness that had briefly overcome him on that occasion was the only comparison he could think of for this new and thoroughly unpleasant sensation. The seasickness had developed slowly and gradually; this motion sickness was as sudden and instantaneous as the motion that caused it. He leaned forward, eyes closed, clutching at the beast’s neck, fighting the need to vomit.

  Frima, behind him, was equally affected; her head snapped back and forth with each leap, as she fought to retain her hold on Garth’s waist. Her just-emptied stomach rebelled painfully, but was unable to expel what was no longer there. Her eyes watered with the pain.

  Thus neither could see what was happening, which was probably just as well. Unmindful of the puny humans, Koros had landed full in their midst, flattening several, then bounded forward again, leaving half a dozen dead or maimed. A shower of crossbow bolts, fired far too late, tore through the spot where it had first appeared on the stable roof, and a random spatter of crossbow fire continued to follow in its wake as it made its way through the crowd toward the marketplace. At first its path was strewn with bloodied corpses and new-made cripples, but very quickly the mob vanished from in front of this unstoppable juggernaut, and it moved forward in its normal smooth glide instead of a series of violent assaults.

  Garth recovered himself enough to marvel at the number of men his enemies had mustered, and at the incredible power and speed of his mount. He had seen the beast in action before and admired its fluid might and blurring quickness, but watching that velocity and being carried along were two entirely different things. When Koros moved at its full fighting speed, the wind in the faces of its riders was like a solid wall pressing them back; it was impossible to keep his stinging eyes open for more than a second at a time.

  Koros had displayed more strategy than could be expected of a mere beast; instead of taking the shortest and most direct route to the marketplace it had looped northward around several blocks, and now entered the square from a totally unexpected direction. It had moved faster than the news of its approach, and burst unheralded into the broad plaza; for the first time since leaving the stable, it roared.

  The market was still much as usual; the merchants’ stalls ranged around the sides, lit by an abundance of torches, and surrou
nded a crowd of people. The crowd, however, was distributed in a most unusual manner, with squads guarding each entrance and a large mob on the street that led to the Inn of the Seven Stars. Someone was shouting, haranguing the mob.

  There was another unusual feature, far more important: the city gates were closed.

  The warbeast’s roar echoed from the stone of the city wall and the wood and metal of the gates, and for a moment the murmur of the crowd ceased; the speaker broke off in mid-sentence and a brief silence swept the square, to be swallowed in renewed shouting and jabbering.

  No one moved as Koros stalked across the marketplace to the gates. It stopped a few yards away and looked up at the barrier, its golden eyes gleaming in the torchlight. Garth, still dazed from the wild ride—which had taken less than a minute—did the same.

  The gates were iron-bound oak, towering up into the darkness, black against the stars; they were at least thirty feet high. Garth was unsure whether Koros could leap such a height, and apparently it was unsure itself; he was quite certain, however, that it could not do so while carrying two passengers and assorted baggage. He would have to dismount and get the portal open.

  His head was clearing rapidly, but he did not feel himself capable of walking yet; instead, he spoke a soothing word to his mount and peered at the gate to see how they were secured.

  A heavy bar lay across a row of brackets; in the shadows and flickering torchlight he could not see what the bar was made of, but he supposed it would be some sturdy wood, perhaps tarred to resist weathering. Above and below it were masses of knotted rope, apparently lashings around cleats on the two valves; these, too, were dark.

  A sound distracted him; he turned and saw that the mob was approaching, apparently planning to overpower overman and warbeast by sheer numbers. He saw an assortment of swords, maces, axes, clubs, and other weapons brandished amongst the robes, and the glint of torchlight on steel armor here and there where robes had fallen open or hoods been pushed back. He wondered why so many seemingly ordinary Dûsarrans had such accoutrements available; did the city rely on militia in times of war?

  He recalled that he was unarmed at the moment, and reminded himself that he did not want to be on Koros’ back during any fighting that might occur. Accordingly, before the foremost attackers could reach him, he slid from his beast’s back and pulled the sword of Bheleu from its place in the harness.

  It came free just in time; seeing his actions, the Dûsarrans had broken into a run, hoping to kill him before he could defend himself. Instead, the foremost attackers, too busy running to properly defend themselves, had their bellies slashed open. The sword of Bheleu cut through robes, armor, and flesh with equal ease, and the overman’s greater reach, combined with the length of the great blade, meant that the first Dûsarrans were dead before they could strike a single blow.

  Behind them their comrades halted, momentarily deterred, and Garth grasped the opportunity for psychological combat.

  “Scum! Is this the way of Dûsarra, to send hundreds against a lone warrior? Cowards all! Has any among you the courage to face me in single combat? True, I am more than a mere man, but I have already fought long and hard. I slew the abomination in the temple of death! I destroyed the cult of Bheleu!”

  There was renewed muttering in the crowd; none approached. After a few seconds, a voice cried out, “You have defiled our temple!”

  “I have defeated a monster that ate human flesh; I have slaughtered those who worshipped slaughter; and I have freed an innocent victim from a vile sacrifice! Does this defile your temple?”

  “You slew the priest of Tema!” There was a rumble of response. There was no doubt that most of the mob were worshippers of the goddess of night.

  “Who says this? I have fought in the temple of death; I have killed in the temple of Bheleu, and in the temple of Sai, and I have mocked and defiled the temple of Aghad, but who is it that says I have harmed a priest of Tema?”

  “You defiled the temple of darkness!”

  “Who says this thing of me? Let me face my accuser!”

  There was an uneasy stirring but no further shout; a few took a hesitating step forward, only to retreat once again. Then a tall figure appeared at the edge of the crowd, pushing its way forward.

  Garth stared at the approaching person; whoever it was, he stood head and shoulders above the majority of the crowd, his face hidden by a hood the color of drying blood. A path opened before him, and the last third of his journey across the market to face Garth was made in bold strides.

  “Who is this that comes to meet me?”

  “It is I, defiler; it is I who say that you slew the priest of Tema and robbed her altar, that you slew priest and priestess of Regvos. And I am he who will face you in single combat!” With that the hood was flung back, revealing the noseless brown face of an overman, yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

  It took Garth a moment to realize he faced one of his own species; he recognized that voice, and for several seconds was aware only that he was face to face with the high priest of Aghad. His enemy had delivered himself; here was the opportunity for a part of the revenge he craved. He raised the sword of Bheleu.

  “Priest of Aghad! People of Dûsarra, you have believed the ruler of the cult of treachery, the high priest of lies and deceit, whose altar I desecrated in righteous anger! Let our duel decide my fate!”

  The Aghadite grinned and flung aside his robe, standing upright; for the first time it occurred to Garth that he might not win this fight. After all, he was tired, while the overman priest was still fresh. Furthermore, when he abandoned his concealing crouch, the Aghadite was almost eight feet in height, a monstrous size even among overmen. He was curiously lopsided, his right shoulder much higher than his left; such deformities were common among the infants of the Northern Waste, but their victims were customarily killed at birth. That had been a reason for the slow rate of increase in the Waste’s population, but necessary, due to the very limited food supply.

  Silvery mail gleamed on the monster overman’s arms and legs; his chest was adorned with a gleaming red-enameled breastplate. A sturdy steel skullcap with chain-link earflaps protected his head, and blued-steel gauntlets covered his hands. Garth wondered for an instant where he had obtained the gauntlets, which were made to accommodate the peculiarities of an overman’s double-thumbed, long-fingered hands; his own hands were unprotected.

  Still grinning, the Aghadite reached up and slid his sword from a sheath on his back; its hilt was blood-red and its blade dull black—save for the edges, which gleamed silvery-red in the firelight. It was a magnificent weapon, a two-handed, double-edged broadsword. It was in fact, to all appearances, the equal of the sword of Bheleu.

  The creature was a priest, Garth told himself; he could have little real battle experience. His own greater skill should give him the advantage despite the monster’s longer reach and presumably greater strength.

  The black blade whistled; Garth parried the attack, only to find his enemy’s weapon ducking downward unexpectedly, under his own silver blade. He dodged, and escaped injury.

  The priest’s grin remained, and Garth knew that the maneuver had not been the luck of a beginner. He made a feeble riposte, which was easily parried.

  He felt a thin seep of despair as he reflexively met and countered the reply to his blow. This was not what he wanted. He was weary, his stomach hurt from his wild ride, his hands seemed weak and unfamiliar with scar tissue; this was not how he had wanted to face the priest of Aghad.

  Of course, he had not known that the priest was an overman. One of his own kind! One of his people, serving—heading!—that loathsome cult! Despite his weariness, his despair turned suddenly to anger, and his next blow was faster, more aggressive than before.

  He would not despair, he told himself; despair was the province of Sai, sister to Aghad. Of course, anger was the work of Aghad himself, and that realization angered him further. He would show this grinning monster his mistake, make plain
to him his poor taste in employers! The sword of Bheleu flashed up, knocking aside the Aghadite’s next blow, and whipped around and over, scratching enamel from the scarlet breastplate. The Aghadite’s grin wavered.

  Aghad! Aghad was nothing! His time had ended centuries ago; this was the Age of Bheleu! The red gem in the sword’s pommel blazed.

  “I am Bheleu!” Garth screamed.

  The grin vanished. The black sword swung up into a parry, and with a long swooping blow the sword of Bheleu came down upon it, shattering it; splinters of black metal sprayed, ripping the silver mail, scoring the red breastplate.

  The priest’s face went blank with shock as he stared at the remaining foot of blade that protruded from the long hilt he clutched; instinctively, he brought the stump up to meet another blow that came sweeping toward his skull.

  The sword of Bheleu went diagonally through blade, hilt, and hands; bones snapped and blood spurted, but the high priest of Aghad had no time to react. The blade traveled on, shearing through helmet and bone, and the brain that had devised so many taunts and trials was spattered in gory bits across the front of the crowd surrounding the battle.

  The force of the blow was such that the corpse did not crumple, but was instead stretched out at full length upon the dirt of the marketplace, surrounded by gleaming shards of the black sword, a red-and-gray spray of blood and brain making an elongated halo about the ruined head.

  The victor raised his sword in triumph, ignoring the baleful red glow of the gem in its pommel, and bellowed, “I am destruction!”

  Koros roared in answer.

  Then, abruptly, the spell vanished; Garth staggered and stared in horror at the dead form of his foe. He lowered the sword and looked about.