by Mel Odom
The ground inclined toward the door, and Cholik’s steps hastened of their own accord. Slaves noticed him coming and cleared the way, yelling at one another to get out of the way.
Hammers rose and fell as more slaves put additional scaffolding into place, climbing higher up against the door. In their haste, part of the scaffolding fell, swinging like a pendulum from a fixed point, and four men fell with it. A lantern shattered against the stone floor and spilled a pool of oil that caught fire.
One of the fallen men screamed in pain, clasping a shattered leg. The torchlight revealed the gleam of white bone protruding through his shin.
“Get that fire put out,” Altharin ordered.
A slave threw a bucket of water over the fire but only succeeded in splashing it toward the huge door, spreading the flames into little pockets.
One of the mercenaries stepped forward and cut the ragged shirt from a slave with quick flicks of his dagger. He dipped the shirt into another bucket of water, then plopped the soaked garment on top of the fire. Sizzling, the fire died.
Cholik strode forward through the fire, unwilling to show any fear of it. He summoned a small shield to protect him from the fire and walked through it unscathed. The act created the effect he wanted, drawing the slaves’ attention from their fear of the door and replacing it with their fear of him.
The door was a threat, but a toothless one. Cholik had proven on several occasions that he had no compunctions about killing them and having their bodies thrown into the abyss. Gathering himself, standing now despite the weakness that filled him only because he refused to let himself falter, he turned to the slaves.
All their frantic whispering stopped except for the groaning man nursing the broken leg. Even he hid his face in the crook of his arm, whimpering and no longer crying out.
Knowing he needed more strength to face whatever lay on the other side of Kabraxis’s door, Cholik spoke words of power, summoning the darkness to him that he had feared decades ago, only begun to dabble in a few years ago, and had grown strong in of late.
The old priest held up his right hand, fingers splayed. As he spoke the words, forbidden words to those of the Zakarum Church, he felt the power leech into him, biting through his flesh and sinking into his bones with razored talons. If the spell did not work, he was certain he would fall and risk becoming comatose until his body recovered.
A purple nimbus flared around his hand. A bolt shot out and touched the slave with the broken leg. When the purple light spread over him and invisible hands grabbed him, the man screamed.
Cholik continued speaking, feeling stronger as the spell bound the man to him. His words came faster and more certain. The invisible hands spread-eagled the slave on the ground, then lifted him up, dangling him in the air.
“No!” the man screamed. “Please! I beg you! I will work! I will work!”
Once, the man’s fear and his pleading might have touched Cholik. Those things did not touch Cholik intimately, for the old priest could never remember a time when he’d placed the needs of another above his own. But there had been times he’d gone with the Zakarum Church missionaries in the past to heal the sick and tend to wounded men. The recent trouble between Westmarch and Tristram had been rife with those incidents.
“Nooooo!” the man screamed.
The other slaves drew back. Some of them called to the afflicted man.
Cholik spoke again, then closed his fist. The purple nimbus turned dark, like the bruised flesh of a plum, and sped along the length of the beam that held the slave.
When the darkness touched the slave, his body contorted. Horrible crunching echoed in the cavern as the man’s arms and legs shattered their sockets. He screamed anew, and despite the agony that must have been coursing through him, he remained alert and conscious.
A few of the priests who had left Westmarch with Cholik but who had not yet abdicated the ways of the Zakarum Church knelt and pressed their faces against the cavern floor. The teachings of the church held only tenets of healing and hope, of salvation. Only the Hand of Zakarum, the order of warriors consecrated by the church, and the Twelve Grand Inquisitors, who sought out and combated demonic activity within the populace of the church, used the blessings Yaerius and Akarat had given to those who had first chosen to follow.
Buyard Cholik was neither of those things. The priests who had put their faith in him had known that, had believed that he could make them more than what they were, but only now saw what they could become. Cholik, feeding off the slave’s fear and life as they came back to him through the conduit of the spell, was aware that some of his followers regarded him with fear while others looked at him hungrily.
Altharin was one of those horrified.
Bracing himself, not knowing for sure what to expect, Cholik spoke the final word of the spell.
The slave screamed in anguish, but the scream stopped in the middle. The spell ripped the man apart. The explosion of blood painted the frightened faces of the nearby men crimson and extinguished two torches as well as the residual pools of flame from the shattered lantern.
Amoment more, and the desiccated remains of the slave plopped against the cavern floor.
Even though he’d expected something, Cholik hadn’t expected the sudden rush of euphoria that filled him. Pain echoed within him as well, sweet misery as the vampiric spell worked the restorative effects. The lethargy that had descended upon him after using the spells earlier lifted. Even some of the arthritic pains that had started to blossom in his joints faded. Part of the stolen life energy went to him, to borrow and use as he saw fit, but the spell transferred some of it to the demon worlds as well. Spellcraft designed and given by the demons always benefited them.
Cholik stood straighter as the magical nimbus around him lightened from near black to purple again. Then the hellish light drew back inside him. Refreshed, senses thrumming, the old priest regarded his audience. What he’d done here tonight would trigger reaction in the slaves, the mercenaries, Raithen’s pirates, and even the priests. Some, Cholik knew, would not be there come morning.
They would be afraid of him and of what he might do.
The realization made Cholik feel good, powerful. Even when he was a young priest of the Zakarum Church and holding a position in Westmarch, only the truly repentant and those without hope who wished to believe in something had clung to his words. But the men in the cavern watched him as canaries watched a hawk.
Turning from the dead slave, Cholik walked toward the door again. His feet moved with comfort and confidence. Even his own fears seemed pushed farther back in his mind.
“Altharin,” Cholik called.
“Yes, master,” Altharin responded in a quiet voice.
“Have the slaves get back to work.”
“Yes, master.” Altharin gave the orders.
Trained survivalists themselves, knowing they offered no blood allegiance, the mercenaries showed the greatest haste in getting the slaves back to work. Slaves secured the fallen scaffolding, and work began again. Pickaxes tore at the cavern wall covering the gray and green door. Sledges pounded huge sections of rock into pieces small enough for men to carry to the waiting carts. The steady thump and crack of the mining tools created a martial cadence that echoed within the cavern.
Mastering his impatience, Cholik watched the progress of the slaves. As the slaves worked, whole sheets of rock fell, crashing against the floor or piles of debris that were already there. The mercenaries stayed among the slaves, lashing out with their whips and leaving marks and cuts against sweat-soaked skin. At times, the mercenaries even aided in shoving the laden carts into motion.
The work went faster. In moments, one of the door’s hinges came into view. Only a short time after that, further work revealed another hinge. Cholik studied them, growing more excited.
The hinges were large, gnarled works of metal and amber as Cholik had been expecting from the texts he’d read. The metal was there because man had made it, worked by smiths to h
old back and constrain, but the amber was in place because it held the essence of the past trapped within the stirred golden depths.
When enough debris was removed to make a path to the door, Cholik walked forward. The energy he’d taken from the slave wouldn’t last long, according to the materials he had read. Once depleted, he would be left in worse condition than he had been in unless he reached his rooms and the potions that he kept there to renew himself.
As he neared the door, Cholik sensed the power that was contained within. The powerful presence surged in his brain, drawing him on and repelling him at the same time. Reaching into his robe, he removed the carved box made from a flawless black pearl.
He held the box in his hands, felt it cold as ice against his palms. Finding the box had required years of work. The secret texts concerning it and Kabraxis’s door had been hidden deep in the stacks kept in the Westmarch church. Keeping the box secret had required murder and treachery. Not even Altharin knew of it.
“Master,” Altharin said.
“Back,” Cholik demanded. “And take your rabble with you.”
“Yes, master.” Altharin moved back, whispering to the men.
Gazing into the polished surface of the black pearl box, Cholik remained aware of the mass exodus from him and the gate. The old priest breathed deeply. During the years the box had been in his possession, while he’d researched and learned where Ransim had been hidden and developed the courage for such an undertaking and desperation strong enough to allow him to deal with the demon he’d have to confront to take what he wanted, he’d never been able to open the box. What the contents of the box were remained to be seen.
Breathing out, concentrating on the box and the door, Cholik spoke the first Word. His throat ached with the pain of it, for it was not meant for the human tongue. As the Word left his lips, deafening thunder cannonaded in the cavern, and a wind rose up, though no wind should have existed within the stone walls.
The elliptical design on the dark gray-green surface of the door turned deep black. A humming noise echoed through the cavern over the thunder and the gusting wind.
Closing his left hand over the black pearl box, Cholik strode forward, feeling the chill of the metal. He spoke the second Word, harder to master than the first.
The amber pieces in the huge hinges lit with unholy yellow light. They looked like the fires trapped in a wolf’s eyes reflecting torchlight at night.
The wind strengthened in intensity, picking up powdery-fine particles that stung flesh when they hit. Prayers echoed within the cavern, all of them to the holy Light, not demons. It was almost enough to make Cholik smile, except that a small part of him was just as afraid as they were.
At the third Word, the black pearl box opened. A gossamer sphere, glowing three different colors of green, lifted from the box. The sphere rolled in front of Cholik’s eyes. According to the materials he’d read, the sphere was death to touch.
And if he faltered now, the sphere would consume him, leaving only smoking ash in its wake. Cholik spoke the fourth Word.
The sphere started growing, swelling in size like the eels some fishermen took from the Great Ocean. Prized as an exotic delicacy, the flesh of the eels brought a narcotic bliss when prepared with proper care, but it brought death on occasion even when served by a master. Cholik had never eaten of the eels, but he knew how the men and women who did must have felt.
For a moment, Cholik was certain he had killed himself.
Then the glowing green sphere flew away from him and slammed into Kabraxis’s door. Amplified to titanic proportions, the boom! of magic contacting the door manifested itself as a physical presence that knocked rock from the edges of the door and slammed stalactites from the cavern ceiling.
The stalactites crashed down among the huddled slaves, mercenaries, and fallen Zakarum priests. Cholik somehow retained his own footing while everyone around him toppled. Glancing over his shoulder, the priest saw three men screaming in agony but heard no sound. He felt as though spun cotton filled his head. One of the mercenaries carried on a brief, macabre dance with a stalactite that had transfixed him, then fell over. He spasmed as his life drained away.
In the silent stillness that had descended upon the cavern, Cholik spoke the fifth and final Word. The elliptical design ignited on the top, outside ring. From its starting point, a blood-red bead traced the ellipses, making them all glow as it hopped from one completed ring to another. Then it darted to the line that ran through them all, moving faster and faster.
When it reached the end of the design, the bead burst in scarlet glory.
The massive gray-green doors opened, and sound returned to the cavern in a rush. The door shoveled the remaining debris from in front of it.
Cholik watched in disbelieving horror as death poured through the open door from some forgotten corner of the Burning Hells.
SIX
Darrick peered down at Tauruk’s Port, cursing the clouded moon that had proven beneficial only a short time before. Even nestled in the lower reaches of the Hawk’s Beak Mountains, the darkness that filled the city made it hard to discern details. The Dyre River ran mostly east and west, flowing through the canyon time had cut through the mountains. The ruins of the city lay on the north bank of the river. The widest part of the city fronted the river, taking advantage of the natural harbor.
“In its day,” Mat said in a low voice, “Tauruk’s Port must have done all right by itself. Deep harbor like that, on a river that covers a lot of miles, an’ wide enough to sail upstream, those people who lived here must have enjoyed the good life.”
“Well, they ain’t here no more,” Maldrin pointed out.
“Wonder why that is?” Mat asked.
“Somebody up an’ come along and stomped their city down around their damned ears,” the first mate said. “Thought a bright one like yerself woulda seen that without the likes of me needin’ to say it.”
Mat took no insult. “Wonder who did the stomping?”
Ignoring the familiar bickering of the two men, which at times was tiresome and at other times proved enjoyable, Darrick took a small spyglass from the bag at his waist. It was one of the few personal possessions he had. A craftsman in Kurast had built the spyglass, but Darrick had purchased it from a merchant in Westmarch. The brass body made the spyglass almost indestructible, and clever design rendered it collapsible. He extended the spyglass and studied the city closer.
Three ships sat in the harbor. All of them held lights from lanterns carried by pirates on watch.
Darrick followed the sparse line of pirates and lanterns ashore, focusing at last on a large building that had suffered partial destruction. The building sat under a thick shelf of rock that looked as if it had been displaced by whatever had destroyed the city.
“Got themselves a hole made up,” Maldrin said.
Darrick nodded.
“Prolly got it filled with women and wine,” the first mate went on. “By the Light, lad, I know we’re here for the king’s nephew an’ all, but I don’t like the idea of leavin’ them women here. Prolly got ’em all from the ships they looted and scuppered. Wasn’t no way to get a proper body count on them what got killed, on account of the sharks.”
Darrick gritted his teeth, trying not to think of the abuse the women must have endured at the coarse hands of the pirates. “I know. If there’s a way, Maldrin, we’ll be after having them women free of all this, too.”
“There’s a good lad,” Maldrin said. “I know this crew ye picked, Darrick. They’re good men. Ever last one of them. They wouldn’t be above dyin’ to be heroes.”
“We’re not here to die,” Darrick said. “We’re here to kill pirates.”
“An’ play hell with ’em if’n we get the chance.” Mat’s grin glimmered in the darkness. “They don’t look as though they’re takin’ the business of guard duty too serious down here in the ruins.”
“They’ve got all them spotters along the river,” Maldrin agreed. “If we’d
tried bringin’ Lonesome Star upriver, why, we’d be sure to be caught. They ain’t been thinkin’ about a small force of determined men.”
“A small force is still a small force,” Darrick said. “But while that allows us to move around quick and quiet, we’re not going to be much for standing and fighting. A dozen men we are, and that won’t take long for killing if we go at this thing wrong and unlucky.” Moving the spyglass on, he marked the boundaries of the ruined city in his mind. Then he returned his attention to the docks.
Two small docks floated in the water, buoyed on watertight barrels. From the wreckage thrust up farther east of the floating docks, Darrick believed that more permanent docks had once existed there. The broken striations of the land above the river indicated that chunks had cracked off in the past. The permanent docks probably resided in the harbor deep enough that they posed no threats to shallow-drawing ships.
Two block-and-tackle rigs hung from the lip of the riverbank thirty feet above the decks of the three cogs. Stacks of crates and hogshead barrels occupied space beside the block-and-tackles. Ahandful of men guarded the stores, but they were occupied in a game of dice, all of them hunkered down to watch the outcome of every roll. Every now and again a cheer reached Darrick’s ears. They had two lanterns between them, placed at opposite ends of the gaming area.
“Which one of ’em do ye think is Barracuda?” Maldrin asked. “That’s the ship that pirate said the boy was on, right?”
“Aye,” Darrick replied, “and I’m wagering that Barracuda is the center ship.”
“The one with all the guards,” Mat said.