The Call of Distant Shores

by David Niall Wilson

  As soon as he heard the first cry of the watchman announcing that the caravan had been spotted on the horizon, Xenocydes summoned Dendra. The work was coming along more quickly, as if all involved, down to the lowest of the slaves, felt the imminence of danger. A single day. The wagons would roll into the city the following morning, and once the preliminary bargaining was completed, the one wagon that mattered would roll through the framework of the temple's huge gates.

  Three. The king was almost certain that taking so many, so quickly, was a mistake. If he could have spread them out, found a way to concentrate on one at a time, he would have done so gladly. Dendra would not hear of it. Xenocydes had been on the verge of begging, had babbled a scheme for spreading the deliveries over three caravans, but that would have taken months, could have spread over the course of a year. War would not stand still, so Dendra explained patiently. Other temples would fall, and what would become of their treasures? Their gods?

  And she had persuaded him, not with words alone, but with her eyes, ancient, lovely eyes that glittered with energy, slender thighs and strong arms that drew him down to his own bed and fingers that stole sensations from his heart and mind, pressing them back through his skin with such intensity that he walked the thin line of madness. Her caress dangled him over the edge of endless chasms, dragged him back again, and each time he returned she was there, lips pressed tightly to his ear, whispering commands, and suggestions, incanting prayers to dark Thylosson, and winding the tendrils of her spells through his veins. He knew this, and yet could not turn her away. As his lips would move to deny her, his body drew hers closer. As his reason screamed that she was a hag, hundreds of years old and decayed as dust, his passion would bind his ears and prevent understanding. Even when he awakened from their dark liaisons to find her, not at his side, but seated across the room, staring into the distance at the temple, he did not draw back. Did it matter if she actually touched him?

  Dendra entered the throne room in silence, as always, standing at Xenocydes' shoulder before he knew he was not alone, her breath chilly on his throat.

  "My liege?"

  The king could never figure out if her words were meant to mock him. Her voice was so husky, so melodic and charismatic, that it dimmed thought each time she spoke.

  "They have spotted the caravan," Xenocydes said softly. "The wagons will arrive by morning." He turned to her slowly. "How long have you known?"

  Her laughter rolled over him like rancid butter. "I have known since you told me, my liege. Your visions were the first indication, and I have charted the course by them each night as you related them to me. The idols of Klaa will indeed arrive tomorrow. I have been waiting for this moment a long time. Thylosson thirsts."

  "Are the containments complete?" Xenocydes asked? "Will they hold?"

  "Our efforts will only grow in speed once the idols are in our power, my lord. Thylosson will feed off of their energy, and I in turn will feed. The Temple will grow as if blown from glass by the mouth of our God Himself.".

  "Sethran was a thirsty god," Xenocydes breathed softly. "Will he be so easily checked because a city of men has fallen?"

  "You doubt Thylosson?" Dendra asked, eyes darkening.

  "I doubt myself," the king answered slowly, "and though I have seen you work wonders, you are no goddess, Dendra. What if we are wrong?"

  Her eyes were dark and unreadable, and she spoke softly the words he'd dreaded.

  "Then our souls will fall to eternal anguish, and the Temple will fall."

  Xenocydes turned away then, to the window overlooking the city below, and the nearly finished south wall of the temple, jutting like a small cliff from the sand and stone of the surrounding desert. His eyes could pierce little of the darkness, and the longer he stared, the dimmer his perception became. He was vaguely aware of Dendra's fingers tracing icy trails up and down his neck, slipping to his back....patterns. The symbols were etched patiently into his flesh with each stroke of long nails, his soul drawn on like a parchment, or an oracle. His eyes clouded, the city and the temple replaced by other visions, darker images.

  He looked out over another land, hills rolling off into the distance where moments before sand had stretched endlessly, and the crumbed remains of a city laid out before him in a panoramic nightmare image of destruction. The stench of death permeated the air, vultures circling and feeding, their cries and those of the jackals the only sounds of life.

  He focused on the largest of the toppled buildings. One wall still stood, the others had crumbled inward, the deep black scorch-marks of sorcerous flame. He heard words, distant and too soft to be made out, but nearing. Dendra, the decadent melody that was her voice working its way into the tapestry of destruction.

  "You see," she crooned. "Gone. All gone. Klaa lies in ruins, and Sethran? Mighty Sethran, who stole his strength from the vanquished has fed upon himself. His temple is fallen, his idols are stolen, captured....ours."

  The vision shifted...and Xenocydes felt that Dendra's hands had slipped from his back, sliding around to pull him against her breasts, her nails tracing nearer to his heart...and down. His mouth was very dry, but he found that he could not even gather the strength or control of his own body to lick his lips. All of his blood seeped in slow trails down his body, following her stroking fingers downward. His face was damp, coated in a sheen of chilly sweat.

  He saw the wagons again, saw them gathered, camped for the night, not far from the temple, but too far to have been seen by daylight, too far to be seen so clearly. Dendra's fingers wrapped around his erection and despite his lethargy, he gasped. The fire in the center of the camp jumped into view. A single figure sat, staring into those dancing flames as if mesmerized. Xenocydes looked more deeply into those flames. He could just make out what appeared to be shadows, dancing in the flames, arms thrown wild to the sky. He could hear Dendra's voice, still, but could not make out the words. Instead he heard a dark, rhythmic chanting that slipped into his soul, drawing him out toward the flames, toward the wagons. He did not understand the words, but his ignorance did nothing to lessen their power.

  Suddenly he lurched, slapped from behind, and Dendra's words came to him with sudden clarity.

  "Enough!"

  Age crackled for that one second in her voice. A chink in her ancient armor. Glancing down in shock, shock that melted to icy terror, he felt the flaccid remnant of the erection that had threatened moments (hours?) before to stain his robes.

  Seeing him move, Dendra fell silent. She did not touch him again, but watched in silence. He could detect no emotion in her eyes, but somehow he knew what had just happened had not been her doing, nor that of Thylosson. If she was frightened, there was no way to detect that fear.

  "You must sleep my liege," Dendra whispered at last. "They will be here early."

  Turning to gaze at her, before nodding in dismissal, Xenocydes whispered. "They are already here."

  Word had been sent from the palace that the one wagon was to be brought to the temple at dusk. No sooner. Barsinious had cursed the messenger, but the instruction had come directly from Dendra herself. Now even the mournful creaking of the wagon wheels sounded cheerful to Barsinious as the wagon finally wound its way through the streets of the city and on toward the palace, and the temple beyond. His mind buzzed, half from the chorna root he'd been chewing to stave off sleep, and half from the maddening visions, the voices that were never silent now. If he had not feared to be alone with the wagon in the darkness, he would not have lit the previous night's fire, would have sat in the pitch black of deepest night with his eyes shut tightly and not have let the dancer's steal his concentration. Now he wanted only to unload his cargo, see it sealed away, and be off to sleep the sleep of the dead in his wagon, miles from this thrice-cursed city.

  Fires burned deep within the temple, their light dancing beyond the stone walls, sending shadows groping out toward the road. Barsinious shivered. He did not want to be near those flames. He heard voices. Not the voices in h
is head, but somehow similar. As the wagon rolled slowly forward, entering and passing through the gates, the voices grew clearer. Barsinious could make out none of the words, but the sinuous rhythm of the chant pounded through his head with a subtle familiarity. He shook it off and hurried the wagon's pace, coming to a halt near the first of the containments and sitting, waiting to be noticed by those crawling over and around the stone cylinders.

  He glanced to the fire and regretted it instantly. Dendra stood there, her ancient eyes locked on the wagon and its draped cargo with a hunger that rose from deep within. For just an instant Barsinious didn't see the beautiful sorceress. He saw age...more age than he could measure, dry, shriveled skin, clinging to the skull beneath and draped over with ratty, decaying hair. Barsinious drew back with a gasp, but as her gaze shifted to meet his, she was herself again, the vision had passed.

  Dendra stepped forward, crying out in shrill, odd tones to her followers. Four of them broke off from the work on the containments and followed her, drawing a smaller cart behind them. Barsinious watched them approach dully, wanting to leap and run. His heart thudded wildly in his chest. Atop the furthest containment, Xenocydes stood watching. He was silent, still as the stone beneath his feet. If he was aware of the chanting, of the rhythm, it showed in no way visible to Barsinious' weary eyes.

  Dendra and her followers moved past him without a word or glance, to the back of the wagon. Barsinious closed his eyes, breathing heavily. He heard their soft voices, chanting, working subtly into the back beat of the dark rhythm that permeated the temple with dark, insidious sound. The words made no sense, and yet formed images in the merchant's mind, familiar images.

  There was a deep thud as the gate on the back of the wagon dropped open. He felt the vehicle shake and sway, creaking heavily as the idols were moved toward the back, slowly, and lowered to the cart. The rhythm of the chant pounded through the earth, rising through the wagon seat and synchronizing with the pounding of the merchant's heart. He wanted to watch, to know the three abominable things were gone from his cart, but he could not. His gaze was locked on the dancing flames.

  Dendra's minions pranced around it, mincing steps and odd gestures mating with the licking tongues of fire, but Barsinious looked beyond and through them. The fire was alive, figures pulsing, bobbing and weaving among the shadows of the living dancers that ringed it. Dendra's voice blended with those of her followers, her high-pitched keening counterpoint to their low rumbling chant. Barsinious concentrated on that sound, skin suddenly clammy with sweat, though the night was cool and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. The words sifted through him and away, as if caught on the breeze, and other sounds, other voices replaced them. He shook his head, trying to cry out, though he did not know of what, or to whom. The voices were deeper, war-like and dark.

  Shivering, the merchant forced his gaze from the flames with a soft cry, turning in time to see the first two idols roll past him on the cart, being hauled to their tombs. Dendra skipped along beside the cart, her head thrown back, face turned to the night sky, voice rising and falling in an impossibly intricate cadence. She seemed not to hear the voices. None of those who circled the huge fire acknowledged the dancers within. The cart rolled slowly toward the first cylinder and Barsinious cringed back into his seat, shivering in dread.

  Nothing. The stone idol was rolled carefully from the cart, worked slowly along the soft earth into the small opening that had been left to accommodate it. Dendra danced, her acolytes chanted, and the stone casing was slammed into place with a deep, decisive boom of finality. The cracks were sealed carefully, mortar and incense, darker things, pressed into the cracks and smoothed over, prayed over and bound in ways Barsinious would not dare imagine. The flames were stilled, for a moment, and all sound faded to Dendra's voice, and her accompaniment. All the while the dancers were in motion, a moving puzzle, fitting piece to piece, matching step for step.

  And then the cart was rolling again, the second idol perched precariously near the back, carefully drawn to the next containment by strong hands, draped in the deepening shadows of the temple and bathed in the warm glow of the fire. The air was alive now with the sound, the incense smoke so thick it hung like a blanket of cloud, rising to the height of the statues center and wafting about the feet of those who danced.

  Beyond them, Xenocydes had begun to sway slowly back and forth, caught in the rhythm. Barsinious was too far away to hear, but the king's lips moved in time with the voices of Dendra and her followers, his body moving to the controlled rhythm of their spell. His eyes glowed brightly, and his arms rose slowly up until they reached toward the darkened sky, his head thrown back in dark ecstasy.

  The cart stopped and the idol was rolled free, walked to its casing and bound within, no break in the sound or the dance, and the incense thickening again so that all that was visible was Dendra's long hair, dancing about her as she flung herself left and right, somehow winding her way through the deep mist without a misstep, leading the cart back to Barsinious, and the last idol.

  The wagon shifted as they levered themselves up once more, and Barsinious felt the heavy shift of the idol, heard Dendra's voice so close it seemed to whisper in his ear, then away, blown on the wind, and his heart began to calm. It would end. He closed his eyes, feeling his heart shivering back to a steady thumping beat. The idol shifted again, and he jumped, but then the soft scraping of stone on wood told him that it was sliding off the wagon, onto the cart below, and seconds later some intangible sense told him it was moving away.

  Barsinious opened his eyes once more, but at first he could make out nothing. The mist had risen to a deep grey fog, billowing about him, heady with the scent of sandalwood. He blinked, listening for the soft creak of the carts wheels, hearing nothing but the chanting. Something had changed and he strained to hear, but it would not come clear in his mind. He glanced toward the fire and realized that his sight was clearing somewhat. He could make out the glow of the firelight through the haze, and the shifting, flashing shadows of those who danced.

  But they were wrong. The shadows danced as before, but their steps did not match the rhythm of the chanting any longer. They leaped to the high, keening drone of Dendra's voice, but Barsinious realized with a sick, clammy clutch of fear at his heart that he could barely make that voice out. No longer did her words rise above the others, but whispered through the background, weakening steadily.

  The chant had shifted subtly, lowering in pitch. The voices were rougher, but more powerful, the beat thrumming through the mist, each word, each note shimmering through the air and gripped at his heart. Barsinious drew in a long, shuddering breath, and waited.

  The first cry was hideous, a long, ear-splitting wail of pain and terror. It split through the mist, dispersing the chant for that split second and bringing a moment of clarity. Barsinious reached for the reigns, drawing back hard, gasping as the mist split over the third containment and whirled up and away with a sickening wrench of air and light.

  Barsinious stood suddenly...the horses shying, backing into their harness and the wagon, threatening to dump him and trap him beneath the dusty wood frame. He clutched the reins and stared.

  The final stone cylinder stood stark against a background of mist and shadow. Beside it the cart lay broken, canted to one side, one corner imbedded in the soft earth, and the front wheels shattered. The idol was nowhere to be seen, and the niche in the stone cylinder lay empty, a deep red glow seeping from its depths, rising and melting into the mist. Where Xenocydes had stood, a dark stain marked the stone, clearly visible in that momentary flash of clarity, seeping downward, and Barsinious recalled the scream.

  Unnerved, the horses spun, managing not to upend the cart in their terror, and took off in a sudden bolt across the temple floor. The mist settled over the containment once more and Barsinious rocked back into his seat, clutching the wood and adding his own scream to those now rising all around him. The chanting continued, but it was the voices of his nightmares, and he hea
rd as well the pounding of war drums, and the resonating crash of hundreds of booted feet, slamming to the dirt in unison, the clatter of weapons filled the air.

  The fire. With a scream Barsinious dragged on the reins, fighting with all his remaining strength to turn the horses. They were pounding straight at the point where the fire had blazed such a short time before. He could make out the glow, growing brighter and he screamed to the animals, his terror dragging the sound, finally, from his heaving chest. He felt the wagon lurch to the left, felt it careening wildly, rocking up onto two wheels, balancing precariously and then slamming back to the earth.

  Barsinious was tossed roughly back, the reins yanked from his hands and his shoulder cracking painfully back into the seat. He teetered for a moment, nearly falling from the edge of the wagon, the clutched the seat and righted himself.

  Rising, groping for the reins, he gazed into the mist, gasping for breath and feeling it sucked from his lungs by the image that flared as the right wheel of the wagon glanced off the edge of the fire, shooting an arc of sparks high above him.

  Dendra writhed in the flames, hair caught fast in fiery talons, back arched like a bow and her mouth open wide in a silent scream. Behind her a darker image glowed, not moving, but hovering in the center of the fire on invisible supports. Barsinious screamed again, giving voice to the terror mirrored in Dendra's eyes as she was dragged back and down, withered hands clutching her own hair, trying to tear free but held helplessly.

  The wagon lurched again, smacking the merchant's head solidly into the wood of the wagon beneath him, and his vision blurred. He could make out the dancers, shifting through the flame, as he had seen them night after night, could hear the pounding rhythm of their chanting. The idol glared down at him. He knew it was the idol, though he'd never laid eyes on it during the long journey. He fought the shadows that clutched at him, fought to keep his eyes from closing. Failed. As the war cries of the shadow-men faded to the dull roar of blood, rushing through his veins, the glow faded to shimmering darkness.