by Chris Bunch
I crept up to Sergeant Yonge, and motioned. Two fingers, two fingers — fingers stiffened whisked across my throat, fingers pointing at the ground, then looping back in an arch. Yonge nodded, and I saw the stumps of his teeth flash in the dimness. He pointed to three other hillmen. They slid out of their packs and gave them to other men. Knives came out of sheaths, and the four moved up to just below the parapet.
The footsteps came back, passed, came back once more, and four figures went over the wall. I heard the scuffle of booted feet, the very beginnings of an outcry, then, over the hiss of the rain, a falling gurgle.
I went over the parapet in a leap, Sergeant Vien behind me. The two sentries were sprawled, their seeping blood being washed away by the downpour. I saw in the growing light one of the hillmen looking shamefaced, and knew he must have been the one who almost spoiled the killings. Sergeant Yonge would deal with him harshly if we lived through the next hour.
The rest of our party came over the low rampart.
“Yonge,” I ordered. “That body … throw him far out.”
Yonge frowned, not understanding why I didn’t wish to dump both corpses, but motioned to his men, and one of the sentries was hurled into blackness. I listened, but heard no sound of the body striking.
“The other, put facedown … there.” I pointed to a rock about fifty feet back down the rise, a rock it would take some scrambling to reach.
Four men maneuvered the second corpse downhill, then carefully positioned the corpse as I’d wanted.
It would be in plain sight to anyone who peered over the railing, which was exactly what I wanted. Not even Troop Guide Bikaner seemed to understand, so I briefly whispered why I’d arranged matters as I had. If someone came out on the terrace, and saw it unguarded, the first thing they would think was there’d been an accident. They’d rush to the parapet, peer out, and see poor dead Mathia, or whatever his name might have been, where he’d fallen. They would shout for help, for men to climb down and see if their comrade yet lived. That hue and cry would warn us that our escape route had been blocked, and that it was time to find another exit or plan. Or so I hoped.
Now I took the lead, Laish Tenedos just behind me. I put my best men behind him — they’d already been told their deaths were a small matter compared to Laish Tenedos’s and I knew they’d obey.
Then we entered the cavern of the Tovieti.
The cave’s mouth was V-shaped, and reached almost 100 feet above the floor. About fifty feet inside, it rounded, and became an arch. Now we were out of the wind and rain, and a warm, soft wind blew toward us. It was far warmer than the caves I’d explored as a boy, and I wondered if this mountain had once been a volcano, and if its heart still held fiery lava, or if the Tovieti heated it sorcerously.
The light from the outside grew dimmer, our way now lit by torches set in niches cut into the rock. The torches were burning low, and I hoped mightily that all those inside were sleeping.
The tunnel’s roof lowered sharply, until it was about ten feet above us, and the passage narrowed, no more than thirty feet wide in places. I saw some of the men look a bit worried, and hoped the way grew no narrower; there is no way to keep from giving in to certain terrors, and the fear of being closed in is one of the strongest. But the passageway grew no smaller, but twisted and turned between natural stone columns, like mushroom stems, that stretched from floor to ceiling.
This cavern was not only excellent shelter, but eminently defensible — a tiny force could use those columns as cover to fight behind, or mount sudden counterattacks from behind them.
The passageway increased in size and there were side passages that led in different directions. But Tenedos’s sense of direction was sure, and he unhesitatingly waved us on, keeping us in the main tunnel. There were also rooms opening off the sides, and from some of them we heard the snores and shifts of sleeping people.
The cave opened into a great room, its ceiling at least 200 feet above us. There were several levels in the walls of this chamber, with openings like balconies of some enormous tenement, such as I’d seen in Nicias.
Torches weren’t needed here. Instead, mineral formations hung from the roof and grew up from the floor. These growths were translucent, and lights of many colors ran up and down inside them, sending a constant color kaleidoscope shimmering across the cave.
I thought for a moment this could be the great chamber Tenedos had seen, but he shook his head and led us on, across the floor, toward one of a myriad tunnels. He chose one, the widest and tallest, and we followed.
This passage ran as straight as if it had been laid with a plumb for about 200 yards, and then the cavern opened once more.
This was a truly enormous room, its walls made of the most wonderfully colored minerals. Again, there were landings and balconies studded everywhere in the walls, and those startling colors from nowhere provided the illumination.
This was the chamber Tenedos had “visited.” I saw the throne in the room’s center, patterned closely after the one Achim Fergana sat in Sayana, although it didn’t look as gem-encrusted.
Behind it was the drum-shaped altar, and, to one side, high-piled treasure the Tovieti had looted from their victims.
The room was full of sleeping people, the white-robed Tovieti, sprawled everywhere. It looked as if their priests had stopped in midceremony and cast a sleeping spell over their flock. I hoped that was true, and that it would take another incantation to rouse them.
Tenedos pointed toward the throne, and I saw, on either side of it, rows of elaborately carved chests. I lifted an eyebrow, and he nodded — he sensed that in those was what we sought.
So we crept onward, weapons in hand, stepping over and around these sleeping people. There must have been several hundred in the room. Tenedos’s lips were moving, and he touched his eyelids several times. I guessed him to be casting a spell of sleep, or perhaps increasing the power of the one the Tovieti masters had already laid.
The chests were made of wood, and locked, and we used spear-shafts and daggers to pry them open. The wood screeched, and I shuddered, but none of the sleepers stirred.
The one I opened held all manner of marvelous things: I saw a queen’s diadem, a skull, a wand, a stone too large to be precious else it would be worth a kingdom, and many more things. But no mannequins. I tried another, and this one was equally full of wonders, but again, none of the dolls we sought.
Fingers snapped, and Svalbard was beckoning. I hurried to the chest he stood over, Tenedos behind me, and there were some of the dolls, stuffed unceremoniously inside. I waved my men over, and we hastily began stuffing our packs full. Other chests were opened, and we found more dolls.
I was beginning to hope we’d accomplish our task and escape unseen when a shout echoed through the stone chamber. A half-dressed man stood on a balcony halfway to the roof of the room, crying a warning.
Curti’s bowstring twanged, but the shot missed, clattering against stone. Another arrow went after it, truer than the first, taking the man in the stomach. He fell slowly forward, off the rocky ledge, screaming as he pinwheeled down.
The screams woke the sleepers, and the befuddled ones stumbled to their feet.
The last of the dolls went into packs, the packs were shouldered, and we ran for the exit. There was as yet no opposition, other than one or two of the white-clad Tovieti who stumbled into our path and were knocked flying for their pains.
Then Jask Irshad appeared.
He stood on a balcony about thirty feet above the cave floor. He saw us, and screamed in rage. As his shout rang through the chamber, he grew, until he was nearly fifty feet tall, and stepped easily from the balcony to the floor.
“Numantians! The False Seer Tenedos! Now you shall perish, interlopers, Ph’rëng! How dare you! How dare you!”
He picked up a pebble, and cast it at Tenedos. It grew into a mighty boulder, coming directly at the seer. Tenedos spread his hands, chanting, and the boulder was struck aside. It smashed down into
Tovieti, and red spurted across white robes.
Tenedos grabbed a spear from one of my soldiers, tapped it against a nearby stalagmite. I could hear bits of his spell over the din:
“… change … change now …
Free yourselves
Free …
Like a dart, like …
Strike now
Strike hard
You are …”
He tossed the spear at Irshad gently, and as he did the stalagmites around the jask snapped off and smashed through the air at him, like hard-thrown javelins. Irshad was crying a counterspell, shrinking to his normal size as he did, and a curtain of colors rose around him, and the mineral spears shattered as they struck it.
Irshad began a spell of his own, and other jasks ran into the chamber, some with wands, some with relics, and their chanting and cries added to the din.
While magic fought magic, I saw something I might do.
“Lancers,” I cried. “Follow me!” I charged forward, and my men came out of their trance. Tovieti rose against us, and we cut our way on, heading for Irshad and the other magicians.
Irshad’s spell was building. I heard the roaring swell, the sound a wind makes as it becomes a cyclone, growing louder and louder.
Tovieti guards, still buckling themselves into their armor, rushed forward, blocking our attack on the wizards. At their head was a banner with a device I could not make out, and beside the standard-bearer charged a huge man I instantly recognized, having spent enough time around his elder brother.
Chamisso Fergana was armed with exactly the weapon I’d imagined Achim Fergana would prefer: a single-headed beaked ax. He saw me — I suppose Jask Irshad’s magic had told him who I was — and cried a challenge, one I was glad to meet.
Legate Baner dashed in front of me, shouting some sort of a war cry. He cut wildly at Fergana, leaving himself open, and Fergana ducked Baner’s stroke, hooked Baner in the shoulder with the ax’s beak, and yanked the screaming boy toward him. As Baner stumbled forward, Fergana jerked his ax free and sent it crashing into the back of the legate’s head.
Sergeant Vien was there, lunging, missing, and Fergana blocked him hard with a hip and sent the foot soldier stumbling away, and then there was nothing but the two of us.
Fergana held his ax ready in front of him, left hand just below the axhead at shoulder height, right on the haft. He danced back and forth, looking for an opening. I struck for his face, and his ax flashed, almost taking me. I cursed myself for trying for an easy strike, ducked as he cut at me, and struck for his leg, missing again.
We went back on guard, moving, moving. I moved to his weak side, and he turned as I did. I vaguely was aware of Karjan and another Lancer guarding my flanks.
The ax came at me once more, and I jumped back, landing on some gravel. I almost slipped and went down; Fergana shouted victory and came in for the kill. I knelt, grabbed a handful of gravel, and cast it full into his face, jumping aside as his ax came down. Before he could recover, I struck, this time as I’d been taught, not for the vital parts, but to cripple to make the killing easy.
My slash hit his ax handle about halfway up, slicing wood, and then Fergana’s fingers. His shout was a roar, and he dropped his ax, but his unwounded hand reached for a long dagger at his side.
But there was no time left for the rebel leader, and my full lunge took him in the throat, the point of my sword coming out the back of his neck. As he went down I pulled my sword free, recovered, saw Sergeant Vien belabored, and killed his opponent. Then I faced the enemy standard-bearer, trying to defend himself with a short sword. I parried once, again, cut his legs from under him, and gave him the deathstroke as he fell. Chamisso Fergana’s banner fell, landing a few feet from its dead lord. Troop Guide Bikaner had the standard then, waving it triumphantly in victory.
Over the battle din, I heard the keen as Jask Irshad saw his lord’s death, and his concentration broke and the wind-song died. Then, over all, the Seer Tenedos’s voice boomed:
“I have you
I have you
Your force is mine.
Your strength is mine.”
Tenedos stood with his arms stretched out, his fingers closing into fists, as if he were squeezing something invisible. Tenedos’s voice came again:
“Your blood
Courses through my hands.
I hold your heart
You are mine
You are mine.
Take your death.
Take the gift.
Take your death.”
Jask Irshad screeched in agony, clutched at his chest, then fell. He writhed briefly, then lay still.
The Tovieti screamed with him, both their leaders down in death, screamed in panic and desperate need, and louder than the fear came their chant: “Thak! Thak! Thak!”
From somewhere their overlord heard them.
Thak appeared, atop the drumlike altar.
I do not know what strange world Thak came from, nor, really, what he was. Perhaps he came from deep inside our own world, in awful caverns where metal flowed like water and all life was like him. I suppose he was some sort of demon, but one whose form was not flesh nor blood. He was about sixty feet tall, roughly manlike in shape, but crudely formed, his limbs of equal proportion, his cylindrical head sitting squarely atop his torso. Faceted like a jewel, his body sent out blinding shards of light.
The screams from the Tovieti became louder, and I knew they feared their god or demon as much as they worshiped him.
Thak saw us, although there were no eyes or other features to his head, and stepped down from the altar toward us. His joints screeched like ungreased metal as he came, and his thick, stubby fingers reached for us.
As he came, a high-shrill ringing began, a ringing that drove against my eardrums like invisible nails.
Tenedos was digging in his pouch, and he brought out a large, clear gem, cut like a cylinder with the facets coming to sharp points at either end.
I couldn’t hear his spell over the whine, but he cast the gem out, and it landed on one end about twenty feet away. Thak was no more than thirty feet beyond. The gem began spinning, as if Tenedos had whipped a top into motion.
As it spun, it, too, sent flashes of light striking into all corners of the cave, and a low hum started, a hum that quickly rivaled the whine in volume.
“Come on,” Tenedos shouted. “I don’t know how long that will hold him.”
Two men started to run, and both Bikaner’s and Vien’s bellows caught and held them, and their discipline came back.
At the trot, we went out of the cavern, withdrawing in good order, not retreating. Later I’d have time to marvel at how a handful of men had been able to strike and paralyze many times their number, with no more than boldness, surprise, and some sorcery to aid them — a device I was able to use time and again in the service of Emperor Tenedos.
One or two of the Tovieti, dazed by all that had happened in the last few minutes, tried to stop us, but were easy to knock aside or slay — they offered no real resistance.
I chanced one final look at the chamber’s exit, and saw Thak gather himself and stumble forward, like a man driving into a hard wind, step by step toward Tenedos’s gem.
I realized I was the last Numantian in the chamber and hurried on to catch up to my men.
It was a gray, dismal morning, and I delighted in it. We lost three in that cave, counting Legate Baner. Four others were wounded, but were being supported along by their fellows.
In battle order, we went down that trail, now having no reason for concealment, and there were none to oppose us.
Within an hour, we’d regained our horses, lashed the packs with the precious mannequins to our saddles, ridden out of the draw to the track.
Tenedos stared back, up at the mountain and the cavern entrance. The rain had died, and there was no wind. I could hear nothing from the cavern’s mouth, neither screech nor hum.
“Did you kill him?” I asked.
&nb
sp; “I don’t know. I was certainly lucky, providing a spell and talisman where like could strike like, although I had no idea what we would face when we entered the cavern,” Tenedos said. “Perhaps I hurt him sore. Perhaps I sent him back to where he came from.” Tenedos’s voice was most unsure. “Or perhaps not.” He gathered himself.
“Come. We have what we came for.”
We rode hard for Sayana.
ELEVEN
THE ACHIM’S BETRAYAL
We were heroes at Achim Fergana’s court. Not only had we saved the lives of the courtiers and the achim himself from some terrible rending, but we’d killed the traitorous Jask Irshad and the rebel’s most evil brother, Chamisso Fergana.
As for the demon Thak, Achim Fergana was unconcerned. With no one to guide him, even if that powerful spell the ever-brave and never-sufficiently-praised resident-general and Most Powerful Seer Laish Tenedos cast hadn’t, Thak must now be impotent and would soon return to his own dark realms. Similarly, the dreaded Tovieti, without any leaders, would fragment and disappear as if they’d never been.
Achim Fergana, sure that his rule was secure and his family would hold the throne forever, promised us anything, anything we wished, especially since we had returned his dolls. I’d quietly drawn Tenedos aside and wondered if this was wise. He’d shrugged and said that firstly, he doubted if any of the Kaiti would be able to use them without Jask Irshad’s magic, and second and more importantly, it did not matter to Numantia how the ruler of Kait held his throne, so long as the Men of the Hills killed within their own borders.
As for Achim Fergana’s rewards, unfortunately there was little the kingdom of Kait had that we wanted. Gold would have been more than acceptable, for neither Tenedos nor myself nor any of us was wealthy. But this was against the rules of the kingdom, Achim Fergana explained, most regretfully. Besides, the treasury was in a deplorable state, and all hard currencies were desperately needed for the benefit of the people. But anything else …