by David Mason
Half a dozen people lay sprawled on a straw heap; a smoky fire gave some heat to the place, but made the aroma worse. The inhabitants were of all ages: an ancient crone, a child or two, a younger woman, and men. They wore shapeless rags, and all were hideously scarred in a dozen places; and they looked as scrawny as starved animals. There was no doubt that Thuramon was right: these were field slaves.
But, as I studied them, I felt a strange shock; the faces! They could not be… but they were… Doradans. At least three were, and one of these seemed to be…
“Oman,” I whispered.
He heard, and his eyes opened, hollow pits in his bony face. He did not sit up; he only lay, staring up, obviously believing he had dreamed.
“Oman,” I said again. “Make no sound.”
Now he believed. He sat up, his eyes searching the room.
“You cannot see me,” I said. “I am Kavin of Hostan.”
He mumbled, rocking his body, and staring. After a while, he whispered, “Only a dream.”
I released Macha’s hand, and he could see me now.
“I am not a dream.” I said. “Speak quietly. Can you trust these others?”
“Slaves,” he said, hoarsely. “We are all slaves. Many… from other lands. Those two are Doradan. We all speak with each other, here… but there’s no way out, Prince. Have you too been enslaved?”
“Not likely,” I told him. “I thought you dead. How came you here?”
He had been a man of Malvi’s troop, and the others had been farm folk, fleeing to the hills; the antmen had taken a whole group of such, killed some, and sent the strongest on a dreadful journey, to end here as slaves. There were hundreds of Doradans here, he told me. And thousands, taken from other places, all survivors of the slow evil of the three. Here they worked, under the lash, building the work of the three, in fields, in the valley, and ultimately dying in thousands as they had come in thousands.
He had never been inside the central hold, he said. Only dead slaves were taken there sometimes, for what use he could not say. But most dead slaves were flung on a heap, like so many worn shoes.
They ate barely enough to keep them alive and working; they were given a brown substance that seemed to rob them of any remaining will to resist, but made them need less food, and gave them energy to work. That was the smell, we learned.
“You may hide here, during the light,” Oman said. “But you had best go back, as you came. There’s no way.”
“Nonsense,” I told him. “You’ll be free again, when we’re done here.”
“No,” he said, in that same dead, dull voice. “You will die, Prince Kavin.”
“Somebody will die, that I’m sure of,” I said. “But who… now there’s a question. Tell me, have you ever seen any of these masters?”
“He who is called Karn… he rides forth, every day, overseeing the work. Especially toward that place called the Gateway. The one called Hawi…” Oman paused and shuddered. “Those he sends for die very horribly. He likes to… play with torments. But I have never seen him.”
“There is a third.”
Oman shuddered again, even more violently, “I… know nothing. Nothing.”
Then, a hoarse-toned horn blew, and there were sounds outside the hut. Oman glanced about him, fearfully.
“They call us to work,” he said. “I’ll explain to these others, warn them to be silent. Stay here, my lord… but when the darkness comes, go. Go, and never return.”
Fourteen
“Hiding in a sty is not my idea of war,” Daron said gloomily. Hours had passed. We waited in the silence, amid the buzzing of flies and the stench. The slaves were all at work somewhere, and there was no sound outside.
“To gain access to their hold, we’ll need darkness.” I said.
“Perhaps not.” Daron spoke very softly, and laid a hand on his lips. He had been standing near the door, watching the silent yard through a crack.
Now we heard the sound of booted feet, and men’s voices.
They came into the yard, eight men in all, with shaven faces shadowed by metal helms. They were all dressed very much alike, in dark leather, with various colored badges. Each carried a short, broad-bladed sword at his hip, and on the other, a weapon that superficially looked like our handguns. One, who had a wicked-looking whip tucked in his belt, seemed to be their leader.
They stopped, and stood in a group, talking idly, while the one with the whip ambled about the huts, seeming to study them. He went into one, and came out again. The thought came to all of us, that we had been betrayed by a slave. We drew blades and cocked guns; and stood close against the inner wall.
Yet that whipman had not seemed to be as careful as a man might be who expected to find armed strangers. I wondered if this might not be simply a sort of inspection. But here he came, striding confidently toward our hiding place.
He pushed open the door, and stepped in.
It was too simple. A hand slid round his throat, and three knives at once, and he was as silent as he would ever be. As we lowered him to the floor, I took that curious handgun of his, and tried to see how it was made, in the dimness of the hut. The rest crouched, waiting.
There was a trigger on the thing, but the muzzle flared oddly like a funnel. A rod emerged from the side, which I wagged, carefully. But there seemed no place for powder or flint. Well, Tana aid me, I thought, and thrust it into my belt; I drew my own pistol, which I knew better.
The others seemed undisturbed by their leader’s vanishing. One of them said something, and the others laughed. Another took off his helmet, scratching a head of corn-colored hair.
I extended my hand, and found Macha’s ready. Walking very slowly, I eased the door open enough to slip through; and unseen now, I moved past the group in the yard.
I went into another hut, and released her hand, but only long enough to let one fool, who was looking my way, see me. He saw a human figure, flashed on and off, and of course he cried out. He stood there, talking and pointing to the hut.
The others appeared to think he was mad; some laughed. A more serious one went to the hut door, and studied the empty interior. He shook his head, and stepped in.
I slit his weasand with great dispatch, tipping him well forward; I did not wish his garments too stained. He was just out of their line of sight, though the door still stood open.
He was a cursedly difficult man to undress; it took me precious minutes, while his friends wandered about outside. I managed to get the principal garment off, the leather affair, and got into myself; then, his helmet, where he had dropped it, and I seized Macha’s hand again.
They were becoming very disturbed now, from the tone of their voices. Several of them began cautiously looking into and behind huts, approaching the one where my friends lay hidden. I released Macha’s hand, and took my pistol in my left; drawing down the helmet over my face, I stepped to the door.
“Yo!” I cried out. They moved toward me, as I beckoned; and when the first was near enough, I drew him to me, most affectionately, pressing the pistol to his belly. I wished his death to be quiet; and sure enough, the leather of her jerkin muffled the shot quite well. I let him slip, and called out to the others.
All those five remaining were charging me, when my friends took them from behind. They died quickly, except for one, whom I kept under a sword point, lying on his back.
“Not this one,” I said. “He may speak some language we know.”
“I know your tongue, slave,” the man on the ground said.
“Then you may know that you’d best not call a freeman a slave,” I told him, pressing the point down a bit. He was a brave man. He grinned, and spat at me.
“I’m of the Third Guard, Ninety-One,” he said, snarling. “You will die very slowly, slave. Let me rise, and I’ll do you all a favor, and slay you now.”
“I’ll do you a favor, and let you live ten more breaths,” I said. “If you’ll use the breath to tell us a few things.”
His
snarling grin grew broader. “Fool,” he said. “Death is the only gate to freedom and joy. I don’t fear that.” He thrust himself up, and the blade sank into his throat; with a bright bubble of blood on his lips, he fell back.
“Damn the man,” I said, drawing back the sword. “I’d hoped to learn a little… a way into that hold.”
Thuramon stared down at the stiffening corpse.
“He may be of more service, so,” the wizard said, darkly. “I studied those old works, very hard… now, I shall attempt that which few would dare. My tools…”
He made us all stand back, while he performed certain things over the dead man. Then, our blood ran cold. The corpse, dried blood on its throat, sat up, blindly staring.
“Only with one very lately dead…” Thuramon muttered absently. “And he will not stand long. He yearns for the grave. You. Stand up.”
And the corpse obeyed.
“Is there a way to enter the houses of the three kings?” Thuramon said.
“There is.” The voice was a hideous croak; the wound had been deep. But the thing could speak.
“How?”
“The barrack to the western side has an entry, where there is a stair.” the corpse said tonelessly.
“Good, good. Now, stand there, while I see if any of your comrades are in any shape to be used.” And Thuramon set about his work.
“You lads are untidy.” Thuramon muttered. “There’s not another one in decent shape. Ah, well, we’ll use this one… and we’ve eight helmets and eight leather jerkins, what?”
“More than enough,” I agreed. “Though not one of these men was precisely of your shape, wizard.”
“When this is over, I’ll swear off ale for a month.” he said. We stripped the corpses, and dragged them well back, out of sight. Uniformed and helmeted, but keeping our own weapons as well, we should have looked as ordinary guards to any others… at least at a reasonable distance.
Our luck went on, amazingly. We set out in full light along that same road toward the central hold, and watched the sun sink lower as we marched. There seemed to be no other business on the road just then, though we saw workers and guards at a good distance more than once.
But the grim tyranny of that place worked against its masters. No man could have gone so far on a road in Dorada without someone asking his business in a friendly way. Here, though, all was silent and grindstone-hard. Once, a great cart, driven by some unknown force, rolled slowly past us in the other direction, trailing a foul steam. Its driver seemed not to notice us, though he wore the same garb.
The place grew nearer, and as the sun sank, we came under those blackened walls, and glanced up.
Above us, windowless cliffs of brick and stone, mountain-high; and atop them, only tiny slits here and there. And no gates, none visible at any rate.
Our corpse stalked on, in the lead. He knew only Thuramon’s order, to find the barrack gate, and he went on, blind-eyed. Twice we crossed metal lines laid on the ground, but these seemed to lead into blank walls.
Then, in half darkness, we came to a low archway, barred by an iron door. Here, the dead man stopped, and raised his hand, making a gesture. The gate swung open. The corpse, released, fell in a heap, and we hastily shoved him well out of sight against a wall.
Here, there was a high passage, doors on either side, and metal galleries on a second level overhead. But whoever used these barracks was not at home. Two or three times we heard distant voices, and once the sound of boots; but always far off, echoing in the empty halls. Yet the place was swept and ready, weapons stacked, as if prepared for troops.
Then, another arched door, and beyond it, dark rock halls… and a metal stair, going up into darkness.
There we paused, breathing hard.
We had each of us the same thought. It had all been too easy. It was as if a way had been opened up, step by step; and though I trusted my luck, this was beyond luck. I looked at Thuramon, and at the others, and saw my thought reflected.
“We may walk into a trap,” I said, quietly.
“There’s no way back, in any case,” Caltus said. He glanced at his crossbow, cocked and ready. “I feel it too, Prince. It smells of traps. Still, a rat may bite.”
We went on, up the stairway, into the dark.
There was dust on the metal stair, and on the landing where we finally arrived. These stairs were not often used. Ahead, we found a heavy door, and I pressed gently against it. It moved easily… unlocked.
Inside, there were glowing lights, hung from walls, a long, empty passage, walled with brick, floored with brick, as lifeless as a tomb. More and more, the sense of doom lay on us, and we moved like men carrying a heavy weight, on through passage after passage. All were empty, lighted, and silent.
“We’ve been caught in some sort of maze,” Daron grunted, as we turned once more.
“I don’t think so,” said Thuramon. “There. Another door.”
It was a solid metal door at the end of the passage, and as we approached it, it swung slowly open. Beyond was a great lighted room; columns of glowing stone along the walls, and strange ornaments, and a great table… but no human in sight.
“Ah. Here at last,” said a strange, deep voice, and a man came from a door at the other end of the room. He stopped, staring at us with a curious look of contempt and rage on his heavy face… but without fear. And I stared back, as we stood, just inside the door.
“Karn.” I said.
Caltus lifted his crossbow, and fired. The quarrel hummed close by Karn’s head, twisting as it flew, and struck a wall, falling to the floor. He paid it no attention at all.
“No use, Caltus,” I said quietly. “Something protects him.”
“Against an edge, too?” Daron lifted his sword.
“Against most weapons, I should say,” I told Daron, holding him back. “Look. He carries no weapon. But he knew we were here, and he shows no fear. He has a defense.”
“I like that,” Karn said, his deep-set eyes on me. “Logical. Yes. I cannot be hurt by such weapons as you have. And yes, we have expected… something like this. I speak for both my colleagues, who are preoccupied with more important matters at the moment.”
His eyes swept over us, measuring, still with that look of contempt.
“Barbarian warriors. And a… a witchdoctor.”
Thuramon’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
Karn sighed. “Always, I must take the small and unpleasant tasks upon me. Hawi with his… games, and the other, silent in his darkness. And only myself, to deal with practical matters. Well… it would seem I must have you all killed.”
I had watched his eyes.
“Yet, for some reason, you have not yet done so,” I said. “When did you first know of us?”
“Oh, for a long time,” he said. He moved to a great chair, and sat down, still watching us. “A long time. We knew there were strangers in the mountains days ago. But for a much longer time, we knew… you. You with the gray in your hair, still a youth. Tell me, have you a name?”
“I am Kavin of Hostan,” I said.
“Kavin of Hostan. Well, these others do not matter, of course… and I know this witchmonger, of a certainty. You’ve lived much too long, old man.”
Thuramon held silence. Karn chuckled dryly.
“Not merely a peddler of lies and superstitions, but a thief, eh, Thuramon? And a coward, too. You could have died with your own folk, so long ago, but you fled. Then you brought these poor savages here, to work your revenge for you. And die.”
“It seems to me,” I said, slowly, “that you wish to slay us with words. Are you sure you can do it at all?”
His eyes flashed, but he laughed.
“Ah. You think I jest. Well, then… that tall fool, there.” He raised his hand, idly, and pointed at Semas. Semas choked, trying to raise his hands… and fell, in a heap.
“He is dead,” Karn said, in a bored voice. “Truly, I could kill you all, in the same way. But… we have a problem here
.”
“Shall a… witchdoctor… tell you what that problem is?” Thuramon said, in a hard voice. Karn looked at him.
“Would you wish to die first, then?” he asked.
“You will not slay me if Kavin forbids it,” Thuramon said. I stared at him, wondering if he had gone mad.
Karn’s face was oddly pale, now; suddenly, he seemed old and weary.
“So you know that much,” he said. “Then, if you know, how may such knots be untangled? Untwist it for us, Thuramon, and you may have whatever you desire from us.”
“You cannot bring the dead to life,” Thuramon said. “You cannot unburn a world. You have no price for me, Karn.”
“Revenge again, I see,” Karn said. “But they were only humans. It seems excessive, to raise such a clamor.”
“Thuramon,” I said. “Wait. And you, Karn. I see a strange thing here. You’re unable to kill me as you murdered that good knight just now. And I, it seems, could not kill you. But I’m minded to try.”
Suddenly, I found Macha’s hand in mine again, and Karn stood up, his face blackening with fury.
“Thuramon!” He whirled, glaring at the wizard. “You did this. Is he here, in this room?”
“I did not do it.” Thuramon said calmly. “It is his own.”
I went quietly toward the big man, my sword extended, probing. Before the point reached his neck, I felt some strange resistance, as though I pressed against a shield. Carefully, I tested, again and again; but it was impenetrable.
Meanwhile, he roared at Thuramon again, and Thuramon remained calm. The others gripped their weapons, ready to die, as they had seen Semas die.
Then Karn fell back, into his chair, breathing hard.
“Kavin,” he said, less loudly. “Kavin. If you hear… listen. We are forbidden to kill you, but we can slay all those with you, if we like. Preserve their lives. Listen to me.”
I released Macha’s hand, and was visible.
“I’ll listen,” I said. “I’ve no other work today.”
“I do not know what your wizard here has told you, about us three.” Karn said. “But he has cause to hate us. Hear truth. In my own world, evil men conspired against me, and in time, they won… for a while. I found an ally… though I cannot call him a pleasant one. And another ally…”