Elements 03 - Monsters of the Earth

by David Drake

  Every little bit helps. But it was time now to fall back. The Scouts used whistle signals—they didn’t usually have a trumpeter with them across the river. Corylus didn’t have a whistle, and they hadn’t set up calls ahead of time anyway.

  “Recover!” Corylus shouted. His throat was as dry as if he’d been trying to swallow sand instead of just fighting on it. What in Hades’ name was the Singiri signal to fall back?

  “Recover!” he repeated, waving his sword overhead. The tip slung drops of blood.

  One of the warriors glanced over his shoulder. Corylus pointed toward the rear with his sword, then started jogging back.

  The Singiri clicked something in his own language, and the others turned also. One was limping.

  “We’ll wait for them back where we started,” Corylus muttered to Alphena through panting breaths. “Then we’ll do it again.”

  And probably a third time. But it wouldn’t be very long before he and his companions were too exhausted even to raise their weapons. Then they would die and the world would end.

  But until then the Horseheads would be in a fight.

  CHAPTER XVII

  The sky had turned a color like unmixed wine viewed through a glass tumbler. Hedia gave it a glance of haughty dislike.

  The shade ought to cool this niche in the hills. Instead the clouds overhead were a swirling purple-black lid that cut off the sea breeze and the atmosphere was sweltering. Hedia didn’t suppose it really mattered, but it was as irritating as being groped by a dinner guest who she knew was too drunk to perform if she did give him an opportunity.

  She walked at a measured pace, watching her footing more intently than she did what was going on around her. There were soft patches in this sand; she’d almost fallen sideways once already.

  Loose sand rasped between her soles and the sandals despite her having tried to shake it out. Well, she’d compromised her fashion sense as far as she was going to by wearing heavy sandals when she visited Melino. There had been no possibility that she would wear cavalry boots against the possibility of having to cross deep sand.

  When Hedia set out on her personal mission, she had been afraid that an Ethiope would leave the main column to dispose of her. The half men were capable of running, whereas she was not, certainly not on these dunes.

  In fact, the Ethiopes had paid no attention to her. She supposed that one of them would have knocked her head in if she stumbled into its path, but they barely looked at her as she angled off well to the side of their line.

  Corylus and the lizardmen had drawn the flanking Ethiopes inward as Hedia had expected, so there was nothing in her way. She suspected that the half men would ignore all the others in the basin, human and Singiri alike, if they simply moved away from the little Nubian girls.

  The Ethiopes were as mindless as ants; but also like ants, they were inexorable. They were carrying out the orders they had been given. Death would stop an individual, but there were too many individuals for that to be a practical answer.

  Disposing of Paris, the wretched Etruscan farmer, who was responsible for the whole trouble, probably wasn’t an answer, either. Things had gone too far by now.

  The Daughters of the Mind, as somebody had called them, were sprawled on the sand. Nearby the air around their Egg was rippling. A mirage? That, or something else was going on, which seemed likely enough in this place and this time.

  Through the distortion Hedia could see Varus and a lizardman on either side of the Egg, but the images were smeared as though she were looking through a thick sheet of mica. She couldn’t identify the lizardman. Tassk was talking with Pandareus. The three warriors who had come with Tassk were fighting alongside Corylus, but she looked again to be sure.

  Alongside Corylus and Alphena. The thought made Hedia cringe mentally, but nothing showed on her face. No doubt Alphena was making herself useful, as indeed the girl generally did, now that she was being herself instead of reacting against others.

  Here, though, it would make no difference to the final result, and Hedia had a mother’s natural desire that Alphena would die a lady.

  Hedia smiled wryly. Alphena would at least die a virgin. Hedia found that she didn’t take as much satisfaction from that fact as a more proper mother would. A girl’s purity was important for a good marriage, but marriage seemed as unlikely now as Hedia herself becoming a Vestal Virgin.

  Paris had been kneeling before symbols he had drawn in the sand before him, tapping his wand over them while he chanted. As Hedia approached, he rose to his feet and stretched both arms toward the dark sky.

  Hedia had assumed the wand was ivory or pale wood. She saw now that it was a shinbone, probably human, though perhaps from a deer.

  Paris shouted to the heavens. In Etruscan, most likely, but Hedia had never learned the language. She could carry on a conversation in Oscan if she needed to, since one of her nurses had been from the Samnite backcountry.

  A crash louder than lightning snapped Hedia out of her reverie. The purple sky cracked open to north and south. Sunlight reached through, but beyond the sunlight and crawling closer were the glittering immensities of the Worms of the Earth. She could see their backs above the black rocks, and the rocks themselves were being ground into their maws.

  Paris lowered his arms. “You are too late, woman!” he said. “The Worms are loose on the Waking World! They will scrape all human foulness from the Earth!”

  He waggled the wand toward Hedia. She was only ten feet away.

  “Do you know what this is?” he said. “It’s a bone from Romulus. I have used the founder of Carce to destroy the race of Carce and all life with it!”

  “My husband would be fascinated,” Hedia said, walking forward. “And I daresay that Varus might be interested also. Men have to be younger and in better condition before I pay much attention to them.”

  She swung her block of stone at the priest’s face. He threw a hand up to parry it. Hedia’s arm was stronger, and the crystal’s own weight gave force to the blow.

  Paris fell sideways. He had saved his skull for the moment, though his broken hand crumpled when he tried to support himself on it.

  “It won’t help!” he shouted. “You’re doomed! Your whole race is doomed!”

  “That,” said Hedia, “is a problem for another time.”

  She struck at the priest’s face again. This time bone crunched.

  Paris sprawled. Hedia toed his head so that she could see his face. His eyes were open. She hit him again in a spray of blood.

  Hedia would have struck a fourth blow, but she had lost her grip on the stone. She was trembling from reaction.

  She was afraid that if she bent over to pick up the stone she would fall. Besides, it was filthy with blood; and anyway, there was no need.

  The Worms were devouring a path through the hills. The grinding roar of destruction made her think of surf driven by an impossibly huge storm.

  Hedia, wife of Gaius Alphenus Saxa and a noblewoman of Carce, walked regally back toward her son and their friends. Her face was calm. She clenched and unclenched the stiffness out of her right hand.

  * * *

  ALPHENA WAS BREATHING through her open mouth. She’d never before in her life been so tired.

  I’ve thought that before, she realized. Well, perhaps she’d been right before also.

  She and Corylus were fighting as a pair. An Ethiope charged them, snorting through flared nostrils; a second was not far behind. Alphena shifted left as usual.

  More often than not her movement would draw the attack on her, but this Ethiope lifted his huge spear and went straight for Corylus. Alphena slashed for the Ethiope’s raised right elbow, clipping the bone.

  If she hadn’t been exhausted, she would have thrust with the point, but she didn’t trust her timing. In fact, the stroke was perfect, but if she’d been off a little the edge would still have jolted the Ethiope’s arm and thrown off his thrust.

  He bellowed and turned his head toward Alphena. Corylus
stabbed upward past the Ethiope’s shield—he’d dropped it slightly at the pain in his other arm—and withdrew his sword in a spray of arterial blood from the Ethiope’s neck.

  It was as neat a piece of swordsmanship as Alphena had ever seen in the arena, but she didn’t have time to savor it—let alone to congratulate her partner. “Ware front!” the idol shrieked, and the second Ethiope was on her almost before she could react.

  The Ethiope’s pounding hooves kicked a curtain of sand before them. Alphena lifted the idol with her eyes slitted against the dust. First twisted into the path of the point and shattered it on his wooden breast.

  He’s a better god for a warrior than any Olympian would be, Alphena thought. She couldn’t stand against the power of the thrust, but she let it spin her widdershins, hoping to thrust her huge opponent through the body as his rush carried him forward. Instead the Ethiope’s shield hurled her backward like a feather-filled paddleball hit squarely.

  Alphena slammed into the sand. Corylus stabbed the Ethiope through the kidneys, spilling him on the ground beside her with a despairing howl. She cut off his right hand with a quick stroke, though the agony of the kidney wound would probably have paralyzed the creature for the few minutes before it bled out.

  There was another lull in the fighting. The Ethiopes had bunched up when they ran toward the defenders’ sally. When the defenders fell back, Ethiopes arriving through the portal had resumed their amble toward the battle.

  When the later-comers reached the defenders, they wouldn’t be as blown as those previously dealt with. Without this pause, though, Alphena wasn’t sure that she would have been able even to get to her feet.

  She rolled onto all fours, still gripping both the sword and the blood-smeared idol. First was licking himself and chuckling with glee. From training, almost mindlessly, Alphena wiped her sword blade, one side and then the other, on the harness of the Ethiope sprawled beside her.

  She gasped to bring in air. She seemed to be able to breathe more deeply in this posture than she could while standing.

  The Ethiopes were enormously strong. Even the accidental blow from the Horsehead’s shield had thrown Alphena more than her own height backward. Neither she nor any other human could actually stop the creatures’ rush any more than one could stop a ramming warship.

  But despite their strength and their numbers, the Ethiopes fought as individuals. They were more likely to get in one another’s way than they were to support a comrade’s attack. The Singiri worked as a team, and so did Alphena and Corylus.

  The idol looked back at her, though she hadn’t spoken aloud. “Am I not fighting beside you?” First asked. “Would you rather have a disc of bronze like your other companion?”

  “Your pardon, sacred companion,” Alphena said, and meant it. Most of her business with gods in the past had been to watch when the host at dinner offered a crumb and a drop of wine to the household gods.

  Alphena would personally burn incense to First if she returned to Carce. Which seemed extremely unlikely at the moment.

  She would have worn armor if there’d been any that would fit. Now she thanked Hercules that armor hadn’t been available. A helmet and corselet wouldn’t have delayed by eyeblinks the strokes of the Ethiopes’ weapons, but they would have slowed her and confined her breathing. It was difficult enough to suck in air as it was.

  Alphena stood up carefully. Corylus was leaning forward slightly to give his lungs more room also, but he looked ready to fight again. Alphena wasn’t sure that she was. The upper rim of Corylus’ Singiri shield was dented, so perhaps he had gotten some benefit from it after all.

  Hedia was walking back from some distance into the desert. For a moment Alphena couldn’t imagine what her mother was doing; then she traced Hedia’s course outward and saw the body of the Etruscan crumpled among the ruins.

  Alphena felt sudden warmth. Mother isn’t one to forget, friends or enemies, either one.

  Farther away still was a dazzle of gray light reflecting over the ring of hills. The roar that Alphena had ignored in the stress of battle reached her consciousness: The Worms. The Worms of the Earth. Doom, eating its way toward them from the south and—she turned her head—north as well.

  The next wave of Ethiopes approached at a measured pace. More were appearing through the portal; the priest’s death had changed nothing. The sand of this beach had once been solid rock, but the waves had ground it down.

  Alphena glanced behind her. The Daughters lay on the ground, exhausted or perhaps dead. It probably didn’t matter which.

  Pandareus and Tassk were deep in conversation. Surely they weren’t having a philosophical discussion at this time?

  But again, it probably didn’t matter. The old men were as useful talking about the nature of the firmament as they would have been with swords. Indeed, in the long run their talk would be as useful as anything Alphena and Corylus were doing with swords.

  Within the circle of the slumped Daughters, the air was gray and metallic. Alphena could see two figures through the translucence, but she didn’t know who—or what—they were. She hoped one was her brother, because otherwise she didn’t know where he was.

  The Egg, instead of being dimmed by the barrier of air, was as brilliant as a jewel in sunlight. Alphena looked away instantly, but she still had to blink at afterimages dancing across her vision. What was going on?

  But that didn’t matter, either. All that mattered for the moment, and probably for eternity, was the line of horse-headed giants. The leading Ethiopes broke into a clumsy trot as they neared.

  “The next course of the banquet!” First chirped. “Oh, never has a god been fed so well by his worshiper!”

  I’m glad someone is happy, thought Alphena. She shifted to the left to draw the first Ethiope’s attention away from her partner.

  A wind from the sea was picking up. It sent stinging whips of sand across her calves.

  * * *

  THE SIBYL AND GAIUS Alphenus Varus watched from a high ridge. Below them humans and Singiri fought horse-headed savages, while the Singiri princess and Gaius Alphenus Varus chanted spells through Zabulon’s Book.

  “I don’t understand what is going on,” Varus said.

  He didn’t remember joining the Sibyl this time. Half of him thought—imagined—that rather than looking down from their usual detached viewpoint she was standing beside him as he faced the Princess across the glowing majesty of the Egg.

  Of course none of it was real. But what was real? Was anything real?

  “You are great magicians, Lord Varus,” the Sibyl said. “You are bringing the Egg into the Waking World before its Saeclum of Saecla is accomplished, and the Book is your lever.”

  A saeclum was a period of either one hundred years or one hundred and ten years; the best sources that Varus had found didn’t agree. An insistently pedantic voice at the back of his mind wanted to ask the Sibyl which figure was correct.

  The Worms were already larger than the basalt escarpment that they were devouring from north and south. They scoured a hundred feet deep, well into the bedrock. Their heads cast sideways, back and forth, in arcs like those of maggots in dead flesh.

  Rock, the flesh of the Earth, vanished down the crystal maws. The immense forms grew with each pass, and the jaws swept deeper into the basin where Varus and his companions fought.

  Sunlight glanced off them, refracted into shades of gray instead of rainbows. It reminded Varus of feathery variations in smut that rotted wheat while it was still alive.

  Varus looked at the Egg. He was even less able to judge its size now than he had been earlier. It must be huge, but his body could have reached across it and touched the hand of the Princess whose lips moved in silent synchrony with his own.

  Varus glanced at the Sibyl. “Lady?” he said. “Shouldn’t I be below? Shouldn’t I, my spirit … shouldn’t it be with my body?”

  “To do what, Lord Varus?” the old woman said. “Are not you and the Princess, your fellow magici
an, already doing all that mortals can do to save the world?”

  Varus shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog that seemed to be clogging his attempts to think. He said, “I’m not doing anything! I’m just watching!”

  The heads of the Worms continued to sweep side to side, deeper into the basin. The … things, creatures, cancers, however you described them. They didn’t so much crawl forward as grow outward, absorbing more of the Earth and expanding by that ever-increasing amount. The range of hills had vanished except for the nub remaining between the arcs that the two Worms had devoured.

  “A saeclum is not an age of years,” the Sibyl said, “but an age of the Earth, a period of the Cosmos. You are at the close of one saeclum and the beginning of the next. In one age—”

  She gestured. Varus saw from an enormous distance but with perfect clarity the Worms of the Earth writhe and absorb and grow until there was nothing to absorb but a bead of fire like the heart of a volcano, over which the pair of foul crystal Worms twitched untouched.

  “And the other age—,” the Sibyl said.

  The Egg was blue light and all light and all colors, resting in the basin on the edge of the sea but greater in another sense than all the Waking World. The Egg was, and then it cracked open, spilling light that expanded without any more boundary than sunlight itself.

  For a moment, Varus thought he saw the form of a bird, splendid and perfect.

  Then, as his spirit reentered his body on the sand, he heard the Sibyl say, “Well done, Lord Magician. You have hatched the Phoenix.”

  * * *

  WINDBLOWN SAND WAS TORTURE on the back of his calves, his arms, and especially his neck. I’ll be bleeding tomorrow, Corylus thought. He started to laugh but gagged on an incoming breath, so he had to thrust for the Ethiope’s upper thigh while off-balance.

  His sword went home anyway. He withdrew the blade. Blood from the creature’s femoral artery gushed as though the valve of an aqueduct had opened. The Ethiope turned toward his slayer but crumpled before he could raise his spear for a stroke.