The Elder Gods

by David Eddings

  Then Zelana reached out and took a glowing lump of fire out of the empty air and handed it to Eleria. “It’s dark back in the cave,” Eleria told Sorgan. “This little sun should light our way. You should feel honored, Hook-Beak. The Beloved was going to have this for lunch.” She held out the glowing lump of fire. “Here,” she said. “You can carry it, if you like.”

  Sorgan put his hands behind his back. “No, that’s all right,” he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “You can carry it.” So far as Sorgan was able to determine, the lump was not enclosed in glass—or anything else, for that matter. It appeared to be raw fire, but the little girl seemed very casual about the whole thing.

  “All right. Come along, then.” She led him back into the cave, holding up the fire to light the way.

  “Doesn’t that burn your hand?” Sorgan asked Eleria as they went on back into the rocky passageway.

  “No, not really,” she replied. “The Beloved asked it not to.”

  “Why do you keep calling her ‘the Beloved’?” he asked.

  “That’s what the pink dolphins always call her,” Eleria replied. “I used to play with the pink dolphins when I was younger.”

  “We saw some of those when we were coming here from Longbow’s village,” he said.

  “I know. The Beloved asked them to show you the way to get here. She didn’t want you to get lost. The gold you want to look at is right around this corner.”

  Sorgan followed her, but then he stopped suddenly, his eyes almost starting out of their sockets. The rocky passageway he and Eleria had been following was blocked by a solid wall of what appeared to be gold bricks.

  “Will this much do for now?” Eleria asked him. “The Beloved can send for more, but it might take Red-Beard and the rest of the villagers a while to carry it here.”

  “How far back does this passage go?” Sorgan asked in a trembling voice.

  “I’m not really sure,” Eleria replied. “Quite a long way, I think. Hold me up in the air and I’ll take a look.”

  Sorgan picked her up and sat her on his shoulder. She held out her ball of fire and peered back into the cave. “The light doesn’t reach all the way back,” she reported, “but there’s gold back as far as I can see. It’s nice enough, I suppose, but it’d be prettier if it was pink instead of yellow. Yellow’s sort of tiresome, don’t you think?”

  “It doesn’t tire me out much,” Sorgan disagreed.

  “Let’s go on back,” Eleria suggested. “The Beloved’s sort of impatient.”

  “Would it be all right if I took a couple of these bricks to show my men?” Hook-Beak asked her.

  “I’m sure it would,” she said with a sunny smile. “There are lots of them here, aren’t there?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sorgan said fervently.

  They went on back to the front of the cave.

  “Was there enough gold there to suit you, Hook-Beak?” Zelana asked.

  “It looks about right to me,” he replied. “I could probably buy the whole Land of Maag with that much. I’ll have to take some of it with me to show to the other Maags, though. They probably won’t believe me when I tell them about it.”

  “Not too much, Sorgan,” Zelana told him. “The Seagull isn’t built to carry a lot of weight, and we don’t want her to sink out from under us when we sail back to Maag, do we?”

  “We?” Sorgan asked sharply.

  “Eleria and I’ll be going with you, and so will Red-Beard and Longbow.”

  “You don’t really have to come along, Lady Zelana,” Sorgan protested.

  “I think I do, Hook-Beak,” she disagreed. “We need to hurry, and I can persuade the Seagull to go faster—and make sure that you don’t forget about your obligation to return.”

  “But . . .” he started weakly.

  “No buts, Sorgan,” she cut him off. “We sail on the afternoon tide. Go back to the Seagull and get her ready. I’ll have Red-Beard make the arrangements to put some gold on board before we leave. Take Eleria with you. I’ll have to talk with my brother before we leave.”

  “I haven’t agreed to any of this yet,” Sorgan protested.

  “Were you going to say no?”

  “Well . . .” His objection sort of dribbled off as he remembered that solid wall of gold bricks.

  “I didn’t really think so,” Zelana said smugly. “Now go.”

  He looked longingly toward the back of the cave.

  “Quickly, quickly, Sorgan,” she said, snapping her fingers at him. “The day runs on, and we want to be well on our way before the sun goes to bed.”

  THE LAND OF MAAG

  1

  Now, Old-Bear was the chief of the tribe, and though he seldom spoke, Longbow’s parents had told their son when he had been but a child that Old-Bear was very wise. Longbow had been busy being a child at that time, so he had accepted what his parents had told him without question and had continued his childhood with great enthusiasm.

  The village of Old-Bear’s tribe at that time had been located atop a high bluff where the deep forest lay at its back and the shining face of Mother Sea stretched from the foot of the bluff to the far western horizon. Longbow had been certain that there could be no better place in the entire world to be a child.

  It had been in the late summer of Longbow’s fifth year when many members of Old-Bear’s tribe had been overcome by a strange illness that had first burned them with fever and then had wracked them with chill. Their skin had been marked with purple splotches, and they had seen things which had not really been there—things so horrible that they had screamed for many days—and then they had died.

  Now, One-Who-Heals was the shaman of Old-Bear’s tribe, and he was very skilled in the healing arts, but the pestilence which had crept out of the night resisted his every attempt to conquer it, and fully half the tribe of Old-Bear had been carried off. And among those who had been lost had been the parents of Longbow and the mate of Chief Old-Bear. And One-Who-Heals, realizing that the pestilence had defeated him, had gone to the lodge of Old-Bear and had urged his chief to gather up those members of the tribe who still lived and to flee.

  In sorrow, Old-Bear had agreed and had commanded the survivors to burn their lodges, and then he had led them to a new location near the shore of Mother Sea, where they could build lodges on uncontaminated ground, and he had taken the orphaned Longbow into his new lodge and had reared him as if he were his own son.

  Now, Old-Bear had a daughter named Misty-Water, but the children had not, as children often do, contended with each other for Old-Bear’s attention but rather had joined together in their grief. Though they had grown up together in the same lodge, Misty-Water and Longbow had never thought of each other as brother and sister—perhaps because Old-Bear had always referred to Longbow as their “guest.”

  Even as a child, Longbow had been very perceptive, and it had seemed to him that Old-Bear’s use of the word “guest” had been his way to carefully manipulate the thinking of the two children in his lodge. The ultimate goal of the clever chief had been fairly obvious, but as Misty-Water had matured, Longbow had seen no real reason to complain. Misty-Water had grown up to be the sort of girl who made men stop breathing as she walked by. Her long hair was as black as a raven’s wings, and her skin was pale as the moon. Her eyes were large, and her lips were full. She was quite tall and slender, and as she began to mature, other interesting aspects emerged as well. Longbow had found that it was very difficult to take his eyes from her.

  The fathers of attractive girls are frequently very edgy as young men begin to gather in large numbers about their daughters, but Old-Bear remained tranquil because Longbow was attending to the matter. Even as a young man scarcely past his boyhood, Longbow was quite tall and well muscled, and he could be very persuasive. After only a few incidents, the other young men of Old-Bear’s tribe came to understand that the pursuit of Misty-Water could be most hazardous.

  Misty-Water appreciated Longbow’s actions, since she had concerns of her own
that required her undivided attention. She had observed that several of the other young women of the tribe viewed Longbow with a great deal of interest, and it seemed to her that it might be prudent to encourage disinterest. It didn’t really take Misty-Water very long to persuade those other young women that Longbow wasn’t really available. In most cases, she had accomplished this with a few hints, but a couple of the young women of the tribe had required a more direct approach. There had been a few bruises involved, but very few really serious injuries.

  Old-Bear had watched their little games. He hadn’t said anything, but he had frequently smiled.

  The other young men of the tribe viewed Longbow with a kind of awe. He had taken up his bow very early, and he had never been able to explain exactly how it was that every arrow he loosed from his long, curved bow went precisely where he wanted it to go, even at incredible distances. He had tried to explain the sense of oneness he felt with every target his arrows unerringly found. The unity of hand and eye and thought lies at the center of every archer’s skill, of course, but Longbow had realized very early that the target must be included in that unification. It was that sense of joining that lay at the core of Longbow’s unerring accuracy. He believed that his target seemed almost to draw his arrow, and that is a very difficult concept to explain.

  Misty-Water, however, had not had any difficulty understanding Longbow’s point. She had been unified with her target since early childhood.

  Everyone in Old-Bear’s tribe knew by now that it wouldn’t be too long before a certain ceremony would take place, but exactly when was entirely up to Chief Old-Bear, and the chief didn’t seem to be in any great hurry.

  Longbow and Misty-Water were fairly certain that the chief’s delay was no more than his way of teasing them, but they didn’t really think it was very funny at all.

  It was in the early summer of Longbow’s fourteenth year that Old-Bear finally conceded that the children of his lodge were probably mature enough, so with some show of reluctance he agreed that Misty-Water and Longbow could go through the ceremony which would join them for life.

  The celebration began immediately. Misty-Water’s father was the chief, and the young couple was very popular in the tribe, so their joining promised to be the happiest event of the summer. The young women of the tribe gave Misty-Water small gifts, and their gatherings around her were often punctuated with giggles.

  The young men gave Longbow well-made arrowheads, spear points, and knives, all chipped from the finest stone, and they helped him build the lodge where he and Misty-Water were to dwell.

  Finally the day of their joining arrived, and in keeping with tradition, Misty-Water arose at dawn to go alone to a quiet pool in the nearby forest to bathe and then to garb herself in the soft white deerskin garment she was to wear during the ceremony.

  Longbow was not supposed to look upon her that day until the time of the ceremony, and so he kept his eyes tightly closed as he lay on his pallet while Misty-Water gathered up her ceremonial garment and quietly left her father’s lodge. “Hurry back,” he said softly as she went out into the morning light, and she laughed a pearly little laugh that touched his very heart.

  The sun rose above the deep forest to the east, and the blue shadows of morning gradually faded as that most special of days plodded slowly along. Longbow garbed himself with some care, and then he waited.

  But Misty-Water did not return.

  By midmorning Longbow was frantic. Misty-Water was as impatient as he was to go through the ceremony of their joining, and nobody could take this long to bathe. Finally Longbow cast custom and tradition aside and ran out of the village along the path that led to the quiet pool in the forest. And when he reached it, his heart stopped.

  His mate-to-be, garbed all in white deerskin, was floating facedown in the still water of the pool

  Desperately Longbow rushed into the water, gathered her in his arms, and struggled back to the moss-covered edge of the pool. He laid her facedown on the moss and pressed her back as One-Who-Heals had instructed the young men of the tribe to do to revive a drowning victim, but despite everything Longbow tried to revive her, Misty-Water showed not the faintest sign of life.

  In agony Longbow raised his face and howled as all meaning faded from his life.

  When Longbow, insensible with grief, carried the still body of Misty-Water back to the village, Chief Old-Bear wept, but in time he sent for the shaman of the tribe, One-Who-Heals. “She could not have drowned, could she?” the sorrowing chief demanded. “She swam very well, and that pool in the forest is not deep.”

  “She was not drowned, Old-Bear,” One-Who-Heals replied grimly. “The marks on her throat are the marks of fangs. It was venom that took her life.”

  “There are no venomous snakes in this region,” Old-Bear protested.

  One-Who-Heals pointed at the marks on Misty-Water’s throat. “No snake of any size has fangs this large. It is my thought that these are the fang-marks of one of the servants of That-Called-the-Vlagh. There are many stories about the servants of the Vlagh. Old stories seldom have much truth to them, but it seems that the stories about the creatures of the Wasteland might well be true. It was That-Called-the-Vlagh that made them, and we are told that the Vlagh gave them venom so that they would need no weapons.”

  “Why would a servant of the Vlagh kill our beloved Misty-Water?” Old-Bear demanded in a voice filled with grief.

  “There are rumors in the air which tell us that That-Called-the-Vlagh grows restless and that it sends its servants out of the Wasteland into the coastal domains to watch us so that the Vlagh might come to know of our weaknesses. Those servants do not wish to be seen, I think, so they will most probably kill any of us who happen to see them, so that they may continue to watch us and to carry what they have seen back to the Vlagh.”

  “It might be well, then, if none of the servants of the Vlagh return to the Wasteland with this knowledge,” Old-Bear said grimly. “I will speak with my son Longbow of this. His grief may be a wellspring for eternal hatred, and I think That-Called-the-Vlagh may come to regret what its servants have done this day.”

  “Send him to me before he goes to the hunt, my chief,” One-Who-Heals suggested. “Let him grieve first, though. He’ll think more clearly after his grief has run its course, and while he grieves, I will use the time to gather more information about the servants of the Vlagh so that I can advise him of their peculiarities.”

  It was late in the winter of the following year when Old-Bear decided that it might well be time to take the still-grieving Longbow to the lodge of One-Who-Heals, for Longbow’s grief showed no signs of fading, and so he bleakly commanded his despairing son to accompany him.

  And so they trudged through the melting snow to the shaman’s lodge, and when they entered, One-Who-Heals opened a bundle of dried bones and spread them out upon a blanket for them to see. “Since little is known of the creatures of the Wasteland who serve That-Called-the-Vlagh, I thought it might be well if we had a dead one to examine, so that we might better understand its peculiarities,” he told them.

  “Where did you find this dead one?” Longbow asked in a flat, unemotional voice.

  “I didn’t really find it, Longbow. After the death of Misty-Water, I went out to trap one of them. They know very little about the forest, so it’s easy to conceal a trap from them. I found many tracks of their small feet, which told me where I might have some luck with a trap, and then I dug a pit and concealed it under fallen leaves and twigs. It was a fairly deep pit, and I lined the bottom with sharpened stakes, and then, when it was well-concealed, I waited. It took a while, but finally one of the Vlagh’s servants fell into my trap, and the stakes at the bottom greeted it. Everything worked out quite well, except that it took the creature two days to finish dying. Then I pulled it up out of the pit and boiled all the meat off its bones so that we might better see its peculiarities.” One-Who-Heals shrugged. “After we’ve learned what we need to know, you might want to take t
he skull to Misty-Water’s grave as a gift to her spirit.”

  Longbow’s eyes, which had seemed almost dead, suddenly brightened. “It might please her spirit at that,” he conceded, “and more of these heads might even please her spirit more.”

  “It’s quite possible, my son,” Old-Bear agreed.

  “Now, then,” the shaman said, picking up the skull, “notice that this creature’s fangs are folded back to keep them concealed—much in the same way that the fangs of a venomous snake are hidden. The fangs spring forward when the creature strikes. This is how it hides its weapons until it attacks.” He set the skull aside and picked up the bones of one of the creature’s arms. “As you can see, the creature has sharp spines along the outer sides of its arm from the wrist to the elbow. The spines are much like the stings of wasps or hornets. The spines, like the fangs, are venomous, and they also remain out of sight until the creature wishes to attack. Then they spring forward. Be wary when you approach one of these creatures, Longbow, for they can move very fast. That-Called-the-Vlagh has made a very effective killer, but it has to be close to kill. It cannot kill from any great distance.”

  “That’s a useful thing to know,” Longbow said, his voice coming to life now. “Does this venom cause pain?”

  One-Who-Heals nodded. “Unbearable pain, I think.”

  “And is it even able to kill creatures of its own kind?” Longbow pressed.

  “I’m certain that it can.”

  “Then if I were to smear the venom of one of them on the point of my arrow, it would carry pain and death to any other one I happened to meet, wouldn’t it?”

  One-Who-Heals blinked. “Why would you need to do that? You never miss your target when you shoot one of your arrows.”

  “The creatures of the Wasteland have caused me much pain, and I think I owe them a great deal of pain in return. An honest man always pays what he owes.”

  “Be very careful, Longbow,” the shaman cautioned. “These creatures hunt by concealing themselves, and they strike only when their intended prey is very close.”