by Chris Turner
A metallic flash glittered in the gloom. A snouted face thrust itself out of the dimness, and the three foot curved blade in Dereas’s hand bit into scaly flesh, chopping down to slice a lizard hand off at the wrist. A howl of agony pierced the air and set the mob yelping and charging. The lank lizard hopped around the knots of its enemies, knocking back its fellows as its useless blade crashed to the stone.
Hafta and Rusfaer surged forward and Dereas goaded a storm of attackers into committing with drawn blades. Fezoul clutched his short stiletto in trembling fingers, stabbing right and left in blind jabs. A howl of pain rang out. The dwarf seemed pleased with his first kill. Rusfaer wasted no time in deciding whether he should plunge forth or drop back, concluding that aggression was his best bet while being outnumbered by an inferior enemy. It had saved him once, and would again.
Novices and veterans raged forward to be cut down in a stream of flashing crimson. The intimidating size of Rusfaer had the lizards reeling back in confusion and had won him more fights than he could count. His beard was frothed in blood and his black eyes blazed.
Dereas locked swords with an ugly, green-snouted lizard. He ducked to avoid the slavering jaws and whirled the fiend into two more that tried to flank him. Its flailing tulwar ripped into the closest, slashing out its throat. Dereas kicked the first one out of the cave and the lizard slammed down the crumbling slope of the aqueduct. His blade found the soft center of the third and it died with a wheezing gurgle.
Hafta and Rusfaer worked in grim concert, clearing the first dozen of the rabble that attacked. Dereas’s new six assailants pushed him back, those heaving, frothing, green and black-backed terrors, pushing him further toward the pool. He was knee deep in water and Fezoul, the fighter he was not, cowered behind the beastslayer’s legs, moaning and striking out feebly with his knife.
Rusfaer gusted a snort of disgust and kneed the mountain king out of the way. He saved the dwarf from a lethal stroke that would have carved him ear to ear. One mighty sweep of his blade and he took out another that would have backstabbed Dereas, his blade jutting from between the shoulders of the dumbstruck lizard. Rusfaer lifted the dying creature off its feet and threw it out into the swirling fray of its enemies. Hafta and Dereas struck side by side, slashing the horde to pieces. It was pure butchery, this hatchwork, a seething riot of barbaric frenzy, but then so was every skirmish, Dereas thought, smashing and staving skulls with instinctive rhythm; the only warrior who was left standing was the one who had not halted his breakneck assault. So had Dereas’s father told him from a young age—in the tallow-fumed yurts on quiet nights in winter, or as he had taught him on scores of battlefields on the fringes of the dusky Huughite plains.
Riddled with cuts and bruises, Dereas hobbled about to glare at the corpses floating in the pool. Some twitched, but now all lay dead but a few. Hafta winced from a long surface gash running down his right thigh, but his leather underpadding had saved him from a more serious injury. He was not lamed or lacerated like Jhidik. Rusfaer stood in sombre silence, knee-deep in water, a dozen more welts glistening on his blood-dripping legs to add to the dozens already there. Little did this do to diminish his overall wolfish vitality.
Dereas’s forearm ached unmercifully. The upthrust blade back in the tunnel had caused him woe, but this was the only major wound he had suffered and something he could manage, though his head still hammered and buzzed from the Rgnadon’s pounding on the bridgeworks.
The companions tottered out of the pool back over to where dim light flooded from the cave opening. They caught a glimpse of the lizard king and a host of stragglers below.
To Dereas’s distress he saw a group of guards hanging Amexi up on a pole and fitting him behind the king’s saddle. It was a morbid standard, a warning not to defy the lizards. While the lizard king had his fill of gloating, the others remained silent as their monarch pointed here and there, motioning his troops to mount assaults from two fronts: one up the broken archway, another around the flanks to a nearby cave mouth looming a hundred feet away. Dereas could see knots of the lizards spreading out like locusts to climb the flinty slope and swarm them from the sides. He wheezed an oath. The Rgnadon had failed to reach the gap only because of the sheerness of the grade and the loose rock underneath its feet that would not permit access.
Seeing his clansman Amexi so misused caused his anger to rise. How he despised the lizard king, lording over his brood and the mindless subjects that ran this evil place of Yarim-Id.
He strode out on what little promontory was left of the waterway and peered grimly at the host, brandishing his sword.
The lizard king caught the movement and he screeched up from his beastly perch. “Come down, man-thing! We will ferret you out of your hole eventually. Nowhere can you go! Pygra will find you eventually. She haunts the water tunnels and will swallow your carcasses at will.”
Dereas’s shoulders rippled with contempt. “Release our man, lizard, and let us go our way.” His fingers curled murderously around the hilt of his cold weapon. “We have no quarrel with you—though we should slit you ear to ear for your abuses on us. Let us call a spade a spade. Let us be at peace—your hurts for ours.”
The lizardly voice squealed up in malice. “Never! We will track you forever. We will starve you out, if we must! I will send a hundred of my best warriors up to slaughter you in cold blood. Hundreds more to flush out your rabble. Better to become a lizard now and see the beauty of being a beast, than a lifeless corpse sprawled on the cold stone of Yarim-Id...”
The lizard king jeered and Dereas bellowed, “No chance!” The ghost of a sardonic smile crossed his lips. “We would rather brave Pygra’s jaws than be part of your obscene cult!”
The lizard king’s twitching shoulders became the beginnings of a wild shrug. “So be it, you stupid fools! As you wish—Mazen! Oraat! Take guard.” He slammed his glittering sceptre on the lizard’s hide. “At my command, lizards-at-arms!” His roar echoed in the smoky valley. “Sound the death alarm! Sound the campaign horns! Send Bazard’s squad up to slaughter these stubborn unbelievers!” The king’s gaze fixed fiercely on Dereas. His eyes were distended, his face a bestial sneer.
Dereas bit back his revulsion. Every fibre of his being pressed him to spring down and rip out the lizard king’s heart. In one springing leap he could do it. He clenched his tulwar, ready to enact a foolish deed...
But Rusfaer held him back. “Careful, brother. I know what you are thinking. ’Tis a foolish intention to rile the lizard unnecessarily. Let him die at the hands of his own monsters. We do not wish to stir the pot any more today, nor for baby lizard either. The creature is crazy for blood and the tide of events is beyond our control. We’ve survived thus far and will have another chance in the outer tunnels.”
Dereas gave a miserable groan. “Tell that to Amexi!” His throat choked with grief.
“Amexi is lost,” muttered Rusfaer, “as all of us will be if we do not get out of here fast. ’Tis an open sarcophagus, this cave. More of the creatures will be making their way through these rat holes before long. I can hear them, sniffing and snuffling like the filthy maggots they are. One of these times we will not be so lucky.”
Dereas stifled an insult. He knew Rusfaer from long back, knew he was right, and he mouthed a silent curse.
The New Wolves’ chief could see the inner battle that Dereas fought, and growled in a harsher tone, “Get hold of yourself! Men are like wheat to the scythe. Let it go. Chaff to the wind, do you not see? When a warrior gets attached to his men, he has already lost the battle. Why waste yourself on one lost sheep when Balael has thrown them into the jowls of beasts?”
Dereas grimaced at his brother’s lecture. He felt his self control evaporating. All those nameless warriors, faces, friends, allies, all cut down in senseless heaps. How many more must he bear witness to? Too many lives had gone to feed the dark jaws of the Saeth, whisked away on demon wings, a nameless, merciless fate. How often had he seen his men slaughtered and cut dow
n in battle? Even in the bowels of Ahrion’s keep, during those many dangerous moments, he had been ready to fling himself into idiotic sacrifice. Jhidik only had saved him from himself.
A tight-lipped snarl sprang from his lips. “Maybe we should be more loyal and attached to our men, Rusfaer. That is the warrior’s way. You seem quick to preach such words. If one of your comrades is ‘lost’, do you turn your back on him for Balael’s hounds to chew?”
Rusfaer barked out a short laugh. “Hundreds of men are forsaken every day, little brother. You can rationalize it any way you want. Before you challenge me, don’t forget who came back to save your miserable hide when the lizards were gnawing at your heels!”
Dereas snapped back, “I was already free by my own effort. I hardly needed you to nursemaid me. I didn’t need you at all.”
“Yes, you did!” snarled Rusfaer. “You think you would have made it out of that adders’ nest alive?”
Dereas’s world went still. His silent restraint and equanimity suddenly dissolved into a blaze of choking anger. “I should kill you for that cavalier arrogance.”
It was an ill thing to say and his bile rose again. He clenched his fists and shook his hilt until his knuckles paled in the greenish light. Both warriors faced each other, nerves stretched to the limit. Soon the savage beast would be unleashed in the musty air, a cackling demon.
“Puppy!” Rusfaer cried, snorting and grabbing his brother’s arm in a vicious clutch. With a wicked twist of force, he twirled his body, using his shoulders as a brace, and threw Dereas over his shoulder into the pool. The splash echoed through the chamber. Dereas flailed in the water. “Go soak your head in ice before you trade your life so foolishly for someone who’s half your worth—and who’s already dead.”
Dereas leapt out of the water, shaking with anger. A blade was gleaming in his palm, dripping Vitrin, and it soared out, sweeping an arc, clanging against Rusfaer’s who strode forth to meet him with a bull-like relish. The blades struck in a thunderous echo. Like dark, possessed demons, the brothers swept back and forth across the murky cave, hacking and stabbing, blades and bodies becoming one in an indistinguishable blur, such as mighty heroes of old. Such was their skill.
The passion for bloodsport burned strong in this chamber of the lizards...and Jhidik and Hafta strove to put an end to their ox-mad skirmish and prevent the two from shredding each other to pieces...But they were repelled.
The pent up rage and horror of the last few days erupted in one blinding rush. It could not keep the two apart. In a torrent of blood they exploded—maelstroms of whirling fire that would not extinguish, but sought to consume everything in its path.
“Peace, you fools,” yelled Hafta in his ugliest voice. “You are not the enemy!”
Rusfaer surged sideways. Twisting in an agile crouch, he lashed out in a blistering round house kick at Dereas’s head. But Dereas ducked with a howling grunt.
“We are all enemies in this twisted world!” Rusfaer returned with a roar. “’Tis the time of the Saeth, remember?”
“Hardly,” snorted Dereas, “’Tis the Time of the Lizard, haven’t you heard?” The beastslayer slashed a looping cut and his shouts became a sudden brainless peal of laughter, echoing soul-shiveringly in the gloom, raising the hackles on all present.
Jhidik crossed himself with the sign of the free peoples of the north. Hafta stepped back. Fezoul paled, quivering in the grip of fright.
Beast or Saeth...It was the dark time of the soul when the primal beast rose once again from the ashes of the damned...back in a dark time of man’s past when human hearts and minds became possessed by evil voices that murmured from dead men’s mouths. Voices lurking in the soulless beyond, that place which coaxed men to kill each other over a stolen apple or an inappropriate slur, even if such men were bosom kin.
The violent passion was both dreadful and fascinating to witness. An insane moment passed and the air gave way to a weird happening. Or perhaps the gods, even Balael, decided to put an end to the slaughter of two of his favoured devotees...
A skulking shape crept up from round the shadowed side of the pool, bone knife in hand. The shape was unnoticed by the fighting men, or even the silent spiders that spun their webs in their shadowy corners. Too transfixed were the warriors by the drama being acted out to see the sinister shape that skittered underfoot. It snuck up and jabbed Rusfaer in the calf. The big warrior leaped back, howling, unnerved as the figure darted out of sight. Rusfaer tripped and lost his balance, giving Dereas time to gain the upper hand, holding the blade menacingly at his throat.
“What the—?” Surprise and rage fouled Rusfaer’s sword play. He roared. “The lizard-hearted rogue’s out to gut me!”
“Draba!” Dereas hissed.
The beastslayer too was equally taken off guard and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a springing Draba padding on swift feet off to the tunnel’s gem-encrusted wall. Draba had again announced his presence. Dereas could not help but stare dumbstruck at the lizard-like face grinning and swaying in the spectral light.
Rusfaer gained his feet, cursing. His weapon was clutched in a seething fist. “How did you make it up here, you sneak?”
But Draba’s gaze turned only a shade more whimsical. He seemed to understand, but it was as if human speech were deprived him. Or like an infant, he had not yet developed the knack. His beady eyes darted from man to man and Dereas scowled in indecision. The very fact of his presence implied the mischief maker was much cleverer than he appeared.
Jhidik rounded on the skulker and chased him off up the tunnel. The scaly legs of the fleet-footed Draba were more than a match for the wounded Pirean, who could barely keep up with his steps, swiftly-scurrying over the strewn bodies like a rodent.
Rusfaer massaged his leg where the blade had punctured the skin and drawn blood. “Miserable little beggar. I’ll gut him if I get my hands on him. Good riddance! The lizards will either find him up there and put a blade through his heart for being a rebel, or old Pygra will make snake-bait of him.”
Jhidik’s voice rang from far up the tunnel. “The rotter got away. Come back here, you little squib. I’ll carve your hide ear from ear!”
“Let him go, Jhidik,” murmured Dereas.
The unsteady tramp of the pursuer’s boots grew louder as the flustered Pirean limped back to the tense huddle aside the pool. He scratched his neck. “Can’t you see? He was too early out of the egg and needs a father figure. He finds it in you two.” He jerked a thumb toward the brothers.
Rusfaer made a dry sound in his throat. Hafta looked away cynically.
Fezoul’s croaking murmur rose over the coursing water. “’Tis more complicated than that, I think. The other lizards are not like Draba here who has become some freakish quasi-lizard. Jamuo’s black magic has seen to that. It has failed. Draba is still more human than lizard. I suspect this is true because he was released so prematurely from the egg, like the Pirean says. He is confused and doesn’t know whether he is a lizard or a human, or both. With the sight of you—” he shrugged uncertainly at Rusfaer and Hafta “—it stirs a memory in him of old times, old hints of his former self.”
“A very pretty explanation,” grumbled Jhidik.
Hafta complained sourly, “All very intricate and fine, but what does it do for us? He’s dead to us.”
Dereas was not so sure. ‘Dead’ hung in the air with such finality...he wondered if the little prankster, wherever he was, had heard all that was said and understood much better than they thought.
The chill voice of reason began to rise in Dereas’s head and his heated heart cooled a notch. He muttered entreaties to his wolfish god—“Balael, give me strength or strike me down, if I lose my senses over a little freak...” He turned resolutely to the others. “Let us make use of these wretched corpses—we leave them as an offering of gratitude for our lives. Help me drag them up this tunnel. The lizards will think we fought there and fled up the corpse-strewn passage. Meanwhile we take the other branch.”
“A bit of good thinking, little brother,” grumbled Rusfaer. His teeth flashed in an air of false camaraderie. “Which tunnel, then, Hafta? The left or right?”
“Either’s as good as the other,” muttered the warrior. “I think we’d better do it quickly or suffer the worse for it. Also a double bluff. We can take the tunnel with the torches, not the one with the stream. It’s the one Draba took and we can hope they deal with the little pest in the meantime. They’ll expect us to take the lighted Vitrin-rich route, not the artificially-lit bare tunnel. Hopefully the patrol that came running from there was the last of its kind.”
Rusfaer grunted an acknowledgement. Dereas turned impassively to the mountain king. “Fezoul? What do you think?”
The dwarf’s lips parted in hesitant reflection. He shrugged and shook the sweat out of his hair. “I think any way is fraught with danger. Pygra will eat us alive, no matter what we do.”
Rusfaer gave a sour laugh. “Always a fount of encouragement, aren’t you, mountain king?”
“Save it,” groaned Dereas. Slapping Jhidik on the back, he motioned. “Time passes. To waste another moment on idle conjecture is useless.”
Jhidik grumbled his agreement.
A few quick strides later the beastslayer was dragging a body in each arm up the stream and dumping them up the right-most passage. Rusfaer, Jhidik and Hafta followed his example. Dereas ran up the stream kicking water on the dry parts then backtracked with the intent to turn the scent off them. The ruse, hopefully,would keep the lizards at bay, and keep them safe from enemy clutches for a while. The other, torchlit path they would take, would not be a passage that was known to Pygra. Yet this was perhaps wishful thinking.
The lighted way was littered with hexagonal crystals. Dereas scooped up a couple which had fallen from above. His boots crunched on crystals, pebbles and stray bones. Depressed at the sight, he paused in reflection.