The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  “Ashar, m’lord. The son lost to me was named Ashar.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Ashar fell. A rusty rib of iron slammed beneath his armpit and stopped him with a painful jolt. He dangled at the end of the rod that suspended the walkway from the side of the cliff. It bounced slowly up and down. His legs swung free above the bottomless chasm below.

  Rorekk looked back at the sound of the cracking bamboo and broke his stride. “Pu flesroy tegethen,” he yelled as he twirled a thick finger.

  Ashar squinted, searching for the strange essence that helped him understand what the giant was saying. He held the iron rib in a death grip that turned his knuckles white. He dared not look down but could not help himself. The river was a faint curve of gray in the dark mist of the valley below. The sun had fallen below the Mountains of Mankin and cast all but the top of the world in a haze of blue twilight.

  “Help me!” he cried, but Rorekk stood where he was.

  “Pu flesroy tegethen,” he said again.

  I can’t come back! Ashar understood Rorekk’s words, but the realization made his heart hammer faster against his ribs. His understanding went beyond what was said. Even if he could come back, his weight would send us both to our deaths. The safety of the Oracle comes first.

  Then Rorekk swung his right leg up and slowly turned in half a circle to show Ashar what to do.

  Ashar understood, but the thought of doing what the giant was suggesting terrified him. Moving at all in his precarious circumstance meant death. He was sure of it. The iron slipped a notch downward and undulated slowly. He had no choice.

  He clenched his jaw, gripped the rod more tightly, and swung his foot toward the brace. He missed. On the second try he managed to throw his knee across the bar and lock it there. The violent movement jerked the bar farther out from where it was pounded into the wall. A fistful of broken rock tumbled into the gloom.

  Rorekk started forward but stopped himself. “Eres, eres!” he yelled and pointed behind Ashar and to his right.

  Ashar could hardly breathe, and his heart sounded like a hollow stick being dragged over pickets. He twisted his head around. When he saw it he understood. He reached for the hemp that laced the bamboo slats together, taking care to move slowly. His weight shifted, and the iron rib slipped again. He gasped and froze. His eyes clamped closed. He dared not move again.

  Fear and faith cannot abide.

  He opened his eyes and cautiously stretched his fingers for the braid of fiber. Touching it with his fingertips, he teased it into his fist. He tugged on it to assess its strength, then swung his leg over the bar and grabbed for the rope with his other hand. His feet slammed against the wall of stone.

  “Pu seos doog. Doog!” Rorekk shouted, his voice elated.

  Ashar’s focus remained on climbing the wall. He pulled himself to where he could sprawl across the broken walkway. He gripped the bamboo slats and slithered on his belly until he was on an unbroken section of the walkway. His escape from death had taken less than two minutes, but Ashar was certain he had dangled over the edge for more than an hour.

  Even the heights were fading into darkness by the time they reached the tombs. The summit of the monolith and hallowed fane were still far above them, hidden by both cloud and darkness.

  The walkway ended where a column of rock arched from the wall like the handle of a jug. Beyond the portal, the walls gave way to a broad, flat landing overgrown with moss. Tombs had been carved into the sheer cliff wall. They rose as high as he could see in the fading light.

  Ashar stared at the tombs in wonder. He had heard of the tombs of the blessed, but he had never imagined their exquisite beauty. Ascending the cliff face, they looked like a disorderly stack of ornate buildings. The burial chambers were hollow rooms hewn from the solid rock. The oldest of the tombs were carved to resemble houses made of timber and had ceilings of unhewn tree trunks, some of which had rotted and fallen away. Others tombs were patterned after temples, with columns, epistyles, pediments, and ornate architraves. Intricate relief carvings and engraved drawings covered every workable surface. Funerary feasts. Banquet scenes. Animals and hunting. Some had been painted rather than carved, and all but a trace of the pigments had weathered away.

  The guardians of the hallowed fane go up but never come down. The chilling thought sent a shiver down Ashar’s spine.

  A slot canyon split the wall of rock on the other side. Stones cut in a pattern of concentric circles flared from a concave scoop at the bottom of the cliff. They were defined by the green and living things that had taken root and survived in the tiny cracks between the stones.

  An ancient obsidian altar sat on a protrusion of rock that hung over a cliff with nothing below but the river, now vanished in the gloom. From the density of the flowering vine and thick sponge of moss on the north side of the altar, Ashar suspected it had not been used in many seasons. The carved symbols and inscriptions were largely covered, but a particular motif caught his eye: thirteen egg-like ovals with emanating rays, strange vessels with peaked ends, and great winged birds.

  Ashar helped Rorekk lower the Oracle to the large round dais at the center of the circle. His body was limp, his jaw hung loose, and his eyes were closed. Ashar gripped his hand. “Honorable master?” he whispered. Fear gripped his throat. The Oracle couldn’t be dead.

  Ashar rubbed the old hand vigorously. He didn’t know what else to do. The Oracle’s hand was growing cold. He put his ear to the Oracle’s chest. Silence. Ashar looked at Rorekk for some hope, then shook his head, refusing to accept what he knew to be true.

  There is life beyond death. The righteous ascend to the clouds of blessing. There is a state of endless being. The teachings of Master Doyan swirled through Ashar’s head but brought him no comfort. He looked up at Rorekk again, surprised to see that the giant who had saved them both showed no emotion.

  Ashar turned at the sound of something rushing as if in a wind, but there was no breeze. He lifted his eyes to the mist above his head. A basket as old as the tombs descended on a length of braided hemp. The wefts were woven from fiber, weathered and cracked. The warps were willow wood no thicker than a child’s finger. The basket was suspended by a quadrangle of twisted hemp attached to the corners. The rope vanished in a swirl of clouds the color of bleached bone.

  Rorekk lifted the Oracle as a mother would a child and placed him in the basket. He lifted the bundle of stones wrapped in black fur from the satchel slung over Ashar’s shoulder and tucked it under the Oracle’s limp hand.

  The sound of boots clattering on bamboo grew louder. Ashar whirled about. Shadows thrown by the bandit’s torches darted across the archway and danced among the tombs. The bandits burst into a sprint to reach the portal before it could be closed.

  Rorekk bolted to the arch in seven great strides and threw his weight against the massive stone gate. From the size of the granite stone and struggle of the giant, Ashar surmised that sealing the gateway to the tombs was rarely done.

  The sound of stone grinding over stone melded with the rattling of bamboo and the wild cries of ferocious men who screamed when they saw the entrance closing.

  Ashar ran to Rorekk’s side and threw himself against the massive stone. He pushed so hard that his leg muscles cramped into spasms. He howled at the shooting pain but rolled from his shoulder to his back and strained with every muscle in his body to help Rorekk close the gate.

  The stone rasped in grating protest, but slowly the immense stone moved. The opening narrowed.

  The first of the warriors reached the arch and started through.

  Rorekk threw his weight forward into the stone with one last heave.

  The warrior dove headlong into the rapidly narrowing crack. Too late. His left arm, leg, and upper torso were caught and crushed as the colossal stone gate crunched into the slot on the opposite wall. His howl of pain became a rattle of death as his bones we
re broken and his body crushed.

  Ashar saw the torch fall to the ground. The flame bloomed like an orange flower. The wails of the warriors faded to a hollow echo, distant and far away. Ashar collapsed. The exertion had sapped the last bit of strength from his starving body. Exhausted, used up, and sinking into a dark void, he slumped to the ground, his cheek slamming against a flat stone. The crush of wet moss was pungent. He watched the bandits push the stone as if in a dream that was pierced by tiny explosions of light.

  So many of them. Strong. Fierce.

  They were strange creatures moving sideways through a darkening fog.

  With muscles, spears, and the strength of ten, the bandits moved the stone enough for the dead man to tumble out. The gap was wide enough to give the warriors access to the landing. They scrambled through with weapons drawn.

  Rorekk retreated to the basket and took a protective stance.

  The warriors gathered at the gate, though two of them remained without. Perhaps too superstitious to transgress the tombs of the legendary city of the blessed dead on the holy mountain.

  Ashar struggled to see through the darkening tunnel of his consciousness.

  The brigands rushed the unarmed giant, but broke stride when Rorekk seized the first man, lifted him over his head, and hurled him back into the charging horde. It was delay enough. The basket trembled as the hemp tightened and began to rise.

  The warriors surged forward to stop it. Rorekk was nearly overwhelmed by their numbers, but his will was greater even than his strength. He fought and flung and fended them off until the basket rose beyond their reach.

  From the fleeting edge of consciousness, Ashar saw the basket containing the Oracle’s body swallowed by the clouds. He saw Rorekk fighting, flailing, and falling to one knee only to take up a sword in a slash of blades and rush of blood.

  The last thing Ashar saw before his eyes closed and his mind swirled into unconsciousness was three men striding toward him with swords and bludgeons. Their faces were contorted by vicious growls, but the sound was swallowed by the strange darkness.

  Celestine reached for him and her face glowed in a shaft of sunlight, and she laughed and the light struck her tears and was a stone of light in the palm of his hand, and glimmering shafts of white light streaked into the darkness igniting other stones that marked a path and beckoned him to follow, but the way was hedged by a many-headed monster that swallowed the light and he was afraid but fear and faith cannot abide, and he reached down to grasp a hand thrust up from the darkness and lifted the man into the light and the man wore the collar of a slave and held the sword of a warrior and he slashed the belly of the beast and the light of the stones within exploded in a profusion of color and the monster was no more, and the man with the sword knelt before him and offered him a shining stone and the shimmer of light was blinding and he closed his eyes and was lost in the darkness, and wraiths from the tombs flew at him on leather wings and their eyes were the color of blood and their faces were covered with scales and the sound of them pierced his skin and spikes of teeth roared with thunder and the lightning was a ball of fire and the fire was the breath of the dragon and the dragon was Drakkor and he tried to run but the bamboo rotted beneath his feet and he fell and he cried for help but armored men with bludgeons and a howling of beasts came and the giant tried to stop them and was cleaved in two and his blood was black and he fell in a drowning darkness and sank into oblivion, and the stone of light was in his grasp and the man with the sword stood watch and a great hand caught him, and he floated upward through the darkened mist of clouds the color of bone to a warmth and brightness that was sunlight falling on his face.

  CHAPTER 49

  Qhuin ignored Sargon’s angry pout. He slowed the team only slightly before turning them toward the shallow end of the ravine. The slope was rutted by erosion, exposing lumps of hard rock. The ground was steep and broken, which slowed the wild horses. Following them in the chariot looked to be impossible. Striking a hoodoo with a wheel would shatter the spokes or topple the chariot.

  Qhuin was about to rein in when he saw the slickrock escarpment to his right. It was bold and dangerous but their only chance to stay in the chase. He rippled the reins and called to his horses in the language they understood. The milk-whites surged ahead with confidence. Qhuin loved his horses.

  Princeling Sargon stiffened and prepared to jump.

  Qhuin gripped his arm to stop him and pulled the team hard right. Iron hooves and iron wheels slipped and skidded across the steep slope of smooth rock and jolted to a hard landing in the sandy wash at the bottom.

  The team regained its footing and surged forward without a command. Twin rooster tails of sand sprayed up from the wheels as the milk-whites stretched their necks. The dry bed twisted to the bottom of the broken slope.

  The wild horses had picked their way down the ragged slope. Most of them had reached the bottom by the time the chariot burst from the wash on the canyon floor. Eyes wide and nostrils flared, they scattered in confusion as their wild instincts screamed for them to flee.

  The mares still on the slope turned back. Their hooves slipped on the loose gravel. Some fell to their knees. Others bolted for the flat ground where the walls fell away and the canyon splayed wide.

  “Be ready,” Qhuin shouted and turned the team toward the heart of the wild herd. The milk-whites ran stride for stride with the tarpans galloping on either side. Qhuin picked the largest of the wild horses, a reddish brown mare with patches of white, her neck stretched out. He eased the chariot to the left and matched her pace. Her head stayed straight, but her eyes rolled back.

  “Now!” Qhuin shouted.

  Sargon stood on the footboard with his feet spread and his thigh pressed against the cowling. He advanced the lasso-pole hand over hand, careful to keep his balance. The ground was uneven with crusted sand and clumps of sage. An exposed turtleback of rock protruded from a pool of sand. The chariot lurched. Sargon lost his balance and stumbled.

  Qhuin caught him by the leather strap across his chest and pulled him upright. “She’ll break away. Take her now!”

  Sargon adjusted his stance and thrust the lasso-pole over the neck of the running horse. He was so eager to tighten the noose that he fumbled the line before the lasso looped under her nose.

  The mare dipped her head and thrashed to the right. The lasso skidded over her ears, tangled in her forelock for an instant, then slipped way. The pole fell and hit the chariot’s wheel, flying out of Sargon’s hand. It dragged behind on the safety line, flopping like a fish on a flat rock.

  “What are you doing?” the princeling yelled. “You’ve got to get me closer!”

  The painted mare shied away when the pole fell. She broke from the pack and ran alone to escape the strange beast chasing her. The milk-whites followed. Qhuin watched the panicked mare galloping away and worried she might be injured. For a moment it was as if their thoughts connected in the dusty air and merged and he was her. He felt her fear and knew her mind.

  Predator with horse’s heads. Three that run as one. I must escape!

  “The loop has to be in front,” Qhuin shouted over the tumult of rumbling wheels and rushing air that howled around their ears.

  Sargon recovered the lasso-pole. “It was in front,” he shouted back.

  “Put her nose in first and get it all the way over.”

  “You’ve got to get me closer!”

  “We’re as close as we can come. You’ve got one more chance. If she reaches the trees, you’ve lost her . . . m’lord.”

  “Then drive like you’re supposed to!” Sargon screamed.

  “Of course . . . m’lord.”

  The mare ran for the wall, but Qhuin knew that at any moment she would break right and run for the shelter of the trees. He pulled the rein right and pointed his horses to where their paths would cross.

  Sargon adjusted his stance
and his grip on the lasso-pole. “What are you doing? Why did you turn?”

  “Just be ready!”

  The princeling fumbled with the noose, opening it up and tightening it again.

  The mare reached the rock wall and broke right toward the trees just as Qhuin knew she would. The distance to the woods was less than a stone’s throw. If she reached the trees, they couldn’t follow. Qhuin pulled up beside her.

  “Closer,” Sargon shouted. “You’ve got to get me closer!” He leaned forward with the lasso-pole. The hub of the wheel was less than a cubitum from the mare’s thrashing legs.

  Qhuin held his course. He would not break her legs or end her life for the sake of an inept princeling.

  “In your hands, m’lord.”

  The right wheel dropped into a rutted furrow and jolted out again. The footboard lurched in spite of the cushion of leather and cotton. Qhuin pulled hard left to avoid another burrow some critter had gouged. The meadow was a ruin of craters.

  Qhuin knew the folklore about carnivorous rats that lived in the Tallgrass Prairie. “Bigger than dogs,” some said. There were grizzly rumors that the rats gnawed off the limbs of infants as they slept. The enormous burrows made him wonder if such creatures were more than myth.

  He prayed to the gods that the horses would not stumble or catch a foot or break a leg. Do they even listen? The gods? The thought emptied his head, leaving nothing but an echo of doubt.

  Sargon tried to steady himself on the lurching footboard. He gripped the rail with one hand and reached for the horse with the other. The loop on the lasso whipped back and forth above the horse’s head as Sargon fought the bucking chariot.

  The trees loomed closer. Qhuin looked at the racing mare. Her nostrils were flared and filled with blood. He calculated their distance to the trees. Out of time.

  He loosened the reins and wrapped them twice around the spindle. He grabbed the lasso-pole from Sargon and, in one smooth motion, swept it in front of the mare’s head, over the muzzle, the poll, and around her neck.