by Chris Turner
“Aye, what do you suppose it is for?” asked Dereas, a part of him already suspecting the answer.
Jhidik shrugged. “Some barbarous votary stage at best.”
Rusfaer forced an ominous laugh. “Seems odd for that. No carved runes, no bas-reliefs. Almost like a cell, I think.”
Dereas felt his nerves jump at the mention of ‘cell’, recalling his experience with Ahrion. A revulsion hurtled up his spine, made the hackles on his neck rise. He kicked a layer of the grey dust away from the base of the pot, fighting a sudden urge to back out of the chamber. “Look here, at this old blood,” he growled, “on the flags—and drops of it as if it was spattered from the lip of the open crock.”
Rusfaer grimaced and involuntarily swiped at the vessel. “’Tis an offering receptacle—for their gods, I imagine, or whatever fiends they worshipped, like this ugly snake here—” he slapped a fist on the ghastly effigy coiled in the shadows.
Amexi’s cry came leaping to them from the main hall.
Dereas, wired-edged with apprehension, was first out of the chamber. He halted to see the blond warrior recoiling from a bulky shape tucked in the shadows farther down the hall. He raced to investigate.
At the base of the facade loomed a sculpture of a seated dwarf carved on a great throne. He was sitting eternally as if he had sat there for a thousand years. On his crown he wore an oversized wreath, woven of broad leaf shapes similar to those growing from the cracks in the wall, while over and around him writhed in lifelike coils, a sandstone serpent, in a poise like an obscene garland, not dissimilar to the hideous serpent carved in stone they had seen earlier. The snake’s mouth was wide open, fangs exposed like bristling scythes. Its curled tongue slithered out to nearly tickle his ear, as if he were some martyr or defenceless gargoyle. His placid eyes were closed in a slumber of ages, as if in trance or offering to the snake.
Dereas stared, bewildered. The first sight of the artist’s depiction evoked a pang of repellent horror in him, for reasons quite evident. Although the symbiosis of dwarf and snake was not altogether apparent, it was too real to be casually dismissed. He scraped the edge of his sword across the glistening stone as if to test that the effigy was actually stone and not flesh.
The blade clinked and slid harmlessly off the carving’s hardness.
Dereas hissed. “I swear that the figure and snake could jump right out at me.”
Rusfaer, swaggering at his side, chuckled. “You’re getting maudlin and jittery today, little brother.”
“One tends to be in unfamiliar places,” growled the beastslayer.
Jhidik, lost in his own thoughts, gave a musing grunt: “Not just this, but any of these carvings could be dead ringers for real men and animals. Look, they almost shimmer as if alive. It must have taken ages to carve them.”
“The work of years,” marvelled Hafta.
Dereas stooped to look the stone man more carefully in the eye—a portly figure of middle years with an artless grin. “And who then is our sleeping beauty? He looks to be the ‘dwarf who could do no wrong’.”
Amexi laughed. But as Dereas turned to sheath his sword, the eyes of the statue fluttered open. The beastslayer almost choked on his breath. “Here, what’s this!”
Amexi gasped.
“Sorcery? Saeth’s teeth!” grunted Dereas. “What black wizardry thrusts itself upon us in this burrow?”
Rusfaer hissed. He brought back his broadsword to lop the thing’s head off.
“Wait!” Dereas cried. He caught the edge of the arcing blade on the steel of his guard.
The dwarf slowly shook his head as if waking from a deep and foul dream. The whisper of bared steel and the sudden glimpse of the armed men about him left him with an expression of astonished wonder. He recoiled from the carved snake as if suddenly seeing it for the first time. He disengaged from the strangling loops, his waking consciousness now somewhat registering the terror at discovering where stone ended and flesh began.
Likewise, the dwarf’s face registered the shock of one stung by a dream-memory too gruesome to recall. Something which he tried to hide, thought Dereas. His skin seemed grown pale, almost withered from living in a sunless world.
Dereas held up a cautionary hand. “Hold up! The gnome’s as baffled as us. Look! He loathes the snake.” Kneeling in a crouch, he stooped to glare into the vacuous gaze. “Who are you?”
The dwarf stared back at him blankly. “I—I am Fezoul. A king I was once, if memory serves. King of Yarim-Id. It was once Xatu. But I am not sure. And who are you?”
“I am Dereas—” answered the beastslayer. “Nevermind who I am. How did you come to life, and what are you doing here?—Are you a stone, living man? Or a sorcerer of some kind?”
“I—I don’t—remember.”
“You must!” yelled Rusfaer. “Liar! Only a simpleton or trickster would plead ignorance of something so basic!” He hitched himself forward, his blade flickering at the monarch’s throat. “Is this a temple or a wizard’s lair?” His brawny frame quivered with impatience.
The little man shrank back from that daunting presence, his face carved in a grimace, as if pondering an unsolvable problem.
“Answer me!” cried Rusfaer.
“Neither one!” cried the dwarf. “I believe I have slept overlong.”
“I don’t care if you’ve slept through ten Zecrate’s hells. Tell us what we want to know!”
Dereas and Rusfaer shook their heads in exasperated wonder. Each reached to shake the dwarf—Rusfaer went so far as to slap his face and try to knock some sense into his brain. But the bewildered figure just moaned and whimpered. His speech was disjointed as if he were befuddled or under some mysterious spell.
Dereas and Rusfaer, both dumbstruck, fell silent for some time before they tried another approach.
“Where are all your people?”
The king blinked in confusion, as if struggling to recall a terrible memory. “Guards! Come hither, and seize these—”
“There are no guards,” snarled Rusfaer. “Answer us, little man.”
In defeat the king threw down his hands. “They fled, long ago—or gave Pygra her sustenance through the years. Where is Pygra?” he cried with a visible shudder.
“Who’s Pygra?”
The king’s eyes grew wide with reverent terror. “You don’t know Pygra? She’s the first snake under the mountain. Everybody knows Pygra! They must have been eaten by her, or maybe—”
“Or maybe what?” demanded Rusfaer harshly.
Fezoul could not bring himself to say ‘what’.
Rusfaer slammed his fist on the serpent’s head. “And why are you the only one left here in this abominable chamber?”
The dwarf’s mouth opened but no words came out.
Rusfaer grunted and snarled an oath. “Come on, let’s go! I’ve had enough. This cowardly midget knows nothing.”
The adventurers turned to leave, foraging for a last few clues left in the shadowy rubble, but the little man, peering disconsolately from stone snake to armed men and back to wall, forced words from his quivering lips: “We used to appease the serpent!—a sacrifice on the first day of the lunar month—thrice every season.” He seemed to pale, pondering the lost grandeur of his kingdom. “Certain holes we cut in the cliffs of the east face, to admit light which would tell us of the angles of the sun so that we could accurately gauge the time of the equinoxes. The first equinox when the ice melt was at its peak, we would triple our offerings.”
Rusfaer’s eyes burned like red hot coals. “You sick sod. In that chamber, yonder?” He stabbed a fist out toward the sacrificial niche.
The king nodded guiltily. His gaze shrank under that formidable glare.
Dereas grunted. The quivering monarch did not seem like much of a king.
Burying his face in his hands, the dwarf cried out, “Please understand me. Pygra left us alone; she did not molest us for a time but we became more sycophantic to her demands. She wanted more sacrifices! More sacrifices...�
�� His voice trailed off in a sick, braying murmur. “Certain dissidents amongst us were unhappy with the arrangement—they broke off from main group.”
“And why shouldn’t they?” roared Rusfaer, anger flaming his cheeks.
Fezoul nodded in meek accord. “They were never seen again—though there was evidence that our colleagues burrowed deep into the mountain, down the south branches of the tunnel. They became—something—something grotesque...and horrible.”
“What else?” snapped Rusfaer, the snarl on his lips, a blacksmith’s rasp.
The king swallowed. He seemed to have collected his wits. Indeed, Dereas noted that whereas before the dwarf could hardly speak, he now had found his tongue, an elegant one at that. His golden curls seemed to hold back the sweat of ages on a wrinkled brow. He wore a gown of white and purple silk, cinctured with a wide purple belt at his waist, quite sizeable for an individual so small. An unusual jewelled amulet stemmed from his neck on a beaded cord featuring a fabulously cut diamond or quart crystal that hung in its centre.
“Being King of Yarid-Im,” came his slow, solemn words, “our resident witcher, the Groon of Xatu, concocted a spell for me, that I might be protected, to live on—to continue our race into the future when this nightmare was over. Pygra would one day vacate the tunnels or die from hunger, for lack of humans to devour. The Groon cast the spell on me, that I might dream for a hundred years, as a stone man in the guise of a living monolith. She would enscorcel herself and become my future queen. I was to be obeisant to the snake, to outlive the curse of her reign, and survive the nightmare. ’Twas her last act before she died—eaten alive by Pygra. I think she was eaten.”
Revulsion shook Dereas. “How did you tolerate such a blasphemy in your lifetime?”
“The arrangement was—” but the squeamish voice of the king could not finish the thought, nor could he stop shaking in his hobnailed sandals, bright tears budding in his brown, oval eyes.
“Answer, man!” cried Rusfaer. He whipped out his sword wrathfully close to the dwarf’s ear.
“’Twas foretold!” he yowled. “‘Twas not always like this. We worshipped snakes, yes, but only harmless ones. We worshipped the ancient reptiles, the turtles, the crocs, the geckos, the mansors, the great leptoids, the iguanas. All the serpents of the earth we paid homage to, by far our favourites. Then the lizards, for we saw that the scaled ones guarded the wisdom of the hidden ways. The snake that slithers through the cracks in the stone and hibernates for an age, ’twas the most crafty, and lived still to stalk and snatch at the young chick in the egg. We feared them, but we also worshipped them.”
Jhidik shook his head in sad wonder.
The mountain king shrugged and hung his head. “Pygra was only a small viper then, an eight foot terror, prodigy of mischief and stealth when we first found her slithering in a deep, dark pool far below. We fed her rats and moles and other scavengers from the deeps, things that we could catch easiest in the tunnels. We penned her in our Lizesium, that small chamber yonder, where your rogues were poking about before—then the Reptilium, the gilded mini temple above this hall, rife with pillars of gold and forbidding statues of reptiles and other half men and serpents as she grew bigger. But she broke free, or some careless guardian of the temple had left the cell lock half-cocked on its grate and she wriggled free to become queen of the night! Many thought she squirmed into some hinterland hole and consumed a foul liquid or some potion in a deep dark place. That it had made her grow to vast proportions. She grew and grew, and demanded more sacrifices from us and became drunk with evil ambition. Our most venerated village elder, old Banalbe, told us that we must appease our new, terrible guardian, lest she rear up in malice to bite us, strangle us, or curse us—we must worship her unfailingly, and satisfy her lusts, so he said, whatever the cost, even if it meant death to our own citizens, snatched away in the night never to be seen again. Oh, woe!” He hid his face in his hands and whimpered. “I did not condone such grisliness. Nor am I a murderer, none of our courtiers were. Our sacrifices were for the greater good. They did not work, as I discovered.”
The king jerked himself queasily back to reality, stiffening under the intense glare that Rusfaer cast him and the smooth-carved snake only feet away. He said in a gloomy voice, “She roams still, our Pygra, feeding on whatever creature she finds in these murksome tunnels. For she did not die. I can feel it in my bones, her presence—even now, in my dreams. Always a slithering shadow, at the edge of nightmare, a snouted apparition, with one eye shut, one eye glistening with a bestial hunger, a seething phantasm, a succubus from the cauldron!”
“Very charming,” snorted Jhidik.
“Where is this abomination of yours now?” demanded Dereas.
“I know not,” the king answered in a monotone. “Where our bane lurks is a mystery many have tried to solve. None have penetrated the fastness of the mountain or learned her secrets. If I knew, I would rest easier, for I have been in my dream-daze for decades, as you witnessed.”
“Think, man, think!” cried Rusfaer. In one terrible jerky motion he reached over to shake the bemused monarch like a doll. “The monster must be around these filthy halls somewhere. Or are there more of them? We heard strange rustling sounds earlier in a pit that went endlessly down.”
An expression of cold anxiety bubbled up on the mountain king’s face. “Woe on woe! Only ghosts of terrible things dwell in Minro’s chasm. Doubtless you have awakened them—and me in a late hour of my spell! I must go, with my mind growing dim and fading, barely able to keep up, or recall a distant face or one safe tunnel from the next... I must endure with the threat of Pygra on my shoulders—whether she prowls, or sleeps!”
“Sleep if you must, old man,” rasped Jhidik, “but if we come face to face with this snake of yours—”
Rusfaer pushed past the Pirean to get at the dwarf. “Enough chatter! So you admit you are no use to us alive or dead then, you foolish ape? That you might not even know the way out of this mountain?”
The mountain king pawed off Rusfaer’s hands arching about his throat. “No, I didn’t say that!”
“You did, and don’t lie about it!” the hulking warrior cursed. He rounded on the dwarf, lifting him three feet off the ground.
Fezoul’s body shrank in the iron grip. Legs pinwheeling in the air, his face contorted in a beet red blush. Coughing and sputtering, he pawed out a feeble hand. “I didn’t say that! I can give you life. I can guide you out of these halls to the hither side of the mountain, if you wish.”
“Tell us, then!” cried the New Wolves’ chief. He threw the king hard to the paves where he moaned and tried to suck air back into his ravaged lungs.
“Tell us!” Rusfaer roared.
“Yarid-Im has many cross-tunnels,” he gasped, “—side ways that will lead you to your destination—or to your peril. You must tread like humble field mice with pads on your feet. Stealthily, swiftly! No, you mustn’t make a sound! Who knows what lurks or where the great Pygra may pounce!” At that, the king cast a terrified glance over his shoulder where the shadows were deepest. A mannerism that was his wont, as if Pygra or whatever was the demon of his nightmares, would slither forth, ready to snatch his quivering frame.
“Guide us well then, old man!” Rusfaer rasped with a vengeance. “’Tis your neck that rolls first—” and he prodded the king none too gently with the tip of his blade. The others grumbled and hissed, herded the king toward the exit, none too yieldingly, trusting the monarch no further than they could throw their own boot, or anything in this dark, disquieting hall.
The king saw that what they said they meant, and Dereas frowned anew. He saw the odd figure rose no higher than his midriff, guarding the placid golden eyes of a philosopher enraptured by a theory.
Dereas motioned the company up the double stair that looped back over the hall. “This way.”
Before they took to the stair, the beastslayer halted the king: “What is this light that exudes from these seeps of water?”
The king seemed puzzled by the remark. “You can make light by putting the water in these bowls that are ranged about the altar. Stir it with your finger. You’ll see. I’ll show you the way! It will glow.”
Dereas snatched up a bowl from one of the pedestals and filled it with the running water—water which he found warm to the touch, neither sulphurous nor acrid, but slightly organic in smell. The liquid tingled his fingers when he stirred it, as the curious dwarf had described. A dim greenish light, slightly yellowish in tinge, shone true.
“Magic...” He sucked in a deep breath thick with wonder.
The others were no less amazed, and took bowls of their own.
“Can we drink it?” inquired Amexi, licking his lips.
“Of course!” Fezoul stared at him with surprise, answering in what Dereas guessed to be the confident tone of his people. “Why not? ’Tis the wellspring of our heritage.” He uttered proudly, “Has been for centuries.” His eyes fixed critically on the strangers’ faces, blinking in some distaste. Their wounds and dark scratches seemed to stir a memory in him; no less their blood-smeared limbs and overall gaunt look. “You look to have had a run in with our stone birds, the weasel vultures. Forsooth! Those flying fiends are evil personified, martinets for intruders. You have the appearance of famished wolves about you.”
“Wolves? Who said aught of ‘wolves’?” snarled Rusfaer.
“I would wish it that you were not so loud,” said Jhidik.
“I’ll say it less nicely,” threatened Rusfaer, lancing Jhidik a dark look and tipping his sword in the dwarf’s direction. “That he should shut his—”
“Eat too if you are hungry,” interrupted Fezoul, disarming the big warrior. “Take aplenty of the Razenbush! ’Tis a weed known as ‘Arozoi’. It grows in these halls. The oil is gone from the bronze lamps, I see, else I would cook you up some over these braziers.” He signalled to the iron tripods beside the pedestals where they had taken the water.
Lulled by the king’s artlessness, Amexi and others gazed longingly at the prospect of food.
Rusfaer motioned the dwarf grimly with his sword, suspecting trickery. “You eat first, ‘king’.”