When it had finished, the shark circled, momentarily content, as it felt the sacred black wine spill from the girl’s butchered stomach to heat its own belly. Then it faced the blood-red barge floating beside the tip of black rock. On the command deck, Tiyy, strangely wrinkled and wrapped in furs, smiled down at him. Beside her stood a small smooth stranger. The high priestess put a mouth harp to her lips and played it.
A painfully beautiful flow of notes vibrated across the water.
The shark convulsed angrily, rejecting the harp’s musical command. But Tiyy continued to play, and the fish calmed, raised its pointed snout obediently, then dove, swept back down into the depths of the greenish gloom.
Reaching the floor of the ocean, it glided about the coralheads, rolled through the brown elkhorns and sea whips, touched bottom disturbing an ivory tongue of sand. There its gills expanded, as if savoring for the last time the cold fetid scents of home.
Four
ARRRGGG!
The Nymph Queen’s royal barge swiftly returned to the sea cave, and Tiyy disembarked, strode into a shadowed rock tunnel siding the pier, with Schraak following at a respectful two strides.
Around them, the sound of the incoming tide crashed and thundered in the rock walls like the angry voice of a dark god, and Schraak shuddered with terror. He was a stranger to Pyram’s underground world, but he knew it for what it was, the birthplace of horror. His body, however, enjoyed the dank air and odors of wet earth, and the deeper they went, the more his true nature came to show. His flesh became spongy and oozed a soothing slime.
Reaching a sizable cave holding a tide pool, Tiyy stopped at the edge of the rock ledge overlooking the water, and stared down into the swirling mass. Waiting. Awed and mystified, Schraak stood beside her, his quick small eyes searching his torchlit surroundings.
The pool was in one of the many natural caves which had been formed over the centuries by sea water eating into the cracks at the base of the limestone cliffs. Its submerged floor had a three-foot circular hole through which sea water spilled. It led down to more creeping water-filled passages, crawl holes and caves. These had been formed in the distant ages when the Inland Sea was much lower. Where the actual bottom of the underwater labyrinth lay was unknown.
Directly above the churning tide pool, stalactites, white, tan, rust-red, blue and grey, dripped from the ceiling of the cave forming a multitude of shapes: pillars, knobs, warts and cathedral arches. There were crazy, snakelike creepers formed by wind, cave pearls and rimstone which formed the ledge on which the Nymph Queen and Schraak stood. Here and there in the wall behind the ledge were crawl holes, some no bigger than a fork blade, and others large enough for the passage of a small man.
Sentries, crawling on hands and knees, emerged at the openings of three of the shadowed holes: worm soldiers belonging to the castle’s underground garrison. Their umber flesh glistened wetly under sparse leather armor, and short curved blades grew from the stumps of their right hands. Small dark holes served them as ears, and their tooth-filled mouths hung open as they stared expectantly at the pool.
As the tide continued to rise, waves of sea water crashed through the large tunnel and spilled into the pool, sloshing up the rock walls and washing over the edge of the ledge. With the waves came thin spears of sunlight. They cut through the turbulent walls of water, turning them bright green and filling the cave with a foreboding glow.
Suddenly the cave darkened, and Schraak shuddered, backing away from the edge. Seeing what Schraak had seen, the sentries squirmed back into their crawl holes out of sight. But Tiyy held her place. Confident. Regal.
A huge dark shape was riding a wave, blocking out the light. Then it splashed into the pool, and sunlight again spilled in, giving shape and identity to the massive barrel of the great white shark’s body. It whipped and writhed in the translucent green water, plunged down and vanished in the darkness of the pool’s depths.
Nothing moved. Schraak inched back to the edge of the ledge, and the heads of the sentries slowly reemerged, revealing thin highlights of reflected sunlight between wet, spongy folds of flesh.
A tiny whirlpool, the size of a thumbnail, formed at the center of the pool. It spun in place, then suddenly widened. Its edges were a swirling froth of murky white, the center a black spinning hole. Slowly a silver-white helmet rose out of the inky maelstrom. It covered the head of a man.
Both helmet and neck cape followed the curve of bone and flesh like opalescent growth, and glittered metallically, parting over exposed pointed ears to flow into graceful depressions below wide blunt cheekbones. His large oval eyes opened slowly, a deep blue-grey and cold, with whites that were not white, but pale indigo. Intent. Humorless. Eyes possessed by death and the economical grace of controlled violence.
Tiyy smiled regally and said, “Welcome, Lord Baskt, it has been a long time.”
Schraak fell to his knees reverently, placing palms and forehead against the cold wet stone floor.
The Lord of Destruction floated toward the ledge and ascended the sunken steps. His armor was a dripping rainbow of color, subtle blue, pink and indigo plates that left a trail of color behind in the water. They rose and fell and slid slightly from side to side, accommodating his joints as he moved, and did so without the tinkle or clatter of metal. They were not metal, but hard cartilage growing out of muscle.
His corded arms were bare. Glistening saw-edged teeth protruded along the ridge formed by the bones of his forearms and from the backs of his knuckles. Standing on the ledge, his seven-foot bulk towered over his diminutive queen in a subtle whiplike crouch, as if ready to strike, his head low between his massive shoulders. Over his rounded back rose a dorsal fin.
The water coating the massive lord’s body, instead of dripping off, clung to him adoringly. The whirlpool still spun and splashed, sending arms of water reaching over the ledge to bathe his legs. Then the water released its hold, drained off his body and submissively slid back into the pool. The whirlpool sucked it up, then quickly lost force and died, radiating ripples vanishing against the walls of the cave.
Baskt, taking no notice of Schraak as he rose uncertainly, dipped his head to his queen, giving her the bare minimum of respect. Then he put his hard wary eyes on her wrinkled face, staring intently at a mole on the side of her chin. There was a hair growing out of it thick enough to lace a sandal.
“Why do you stare?” she asked with irritable sarcasm. “After three hundred years, don’t I have the right to show my age?”
Her humor escaped his simple mind. “What’s happened?” he asked, his voice demanding, arrogant.
In reply, she smiled and spread her arms, parting her fur robes. She was naked except for a thin paddle-shaped apron inlaid with precious jewels, a silver girdle studded with diamonds and a thin leopard-skin halter which barely covered the tips of her breasts. One was as round and firm as a fresh pear, the other a flaccid, leathery sack. It contrasted sharply with her brown-gold body, soft, curvaceous, carnal, that of a nubile seventeen-year-old.
Baskt stared at the decaying breast, and she said evenly, “I’m dying.”
He straightened defiantly, unwilling to accept her announcement, because he was dependent, as were all other demon spawn, on the sacred black wine which only her magic could produce.
“Yes,” Tiyy said, “you are right to be afraid. All of our lives, my kingdom, the master himself is in danger. But you are going to save us all.” His eyes thinned with curiosity, and she nodded at Schraak. “This is Schraak. He has just arrived from the Land of Smoking Skies with a frightening tale. The homed helmet has been stolen by a Barbarian called Gath of Baal. With its help, he and Barbarian tribes of the Great Forest Basin have driven the Kitzakk Horde from their desert territory. Schraak’s mistress, the Queen of Serpents, joined forces with the Kitzakks and tried to stop them, to retrieve the helmet. But she failed and then vanished. No one has seen or heard from her. Schraak, it appears, is the only survivor. He was buried alive in the undergrou
nd chambers of the Kitzakk’s desert capital, but his wormlike nature allowed him to escape. He then returned to the Land of Smoking Skies and told our holy father what had happened. Our master ordered him to come here and tell me. But as Schraak was leaving, our lord became so enraged at this disastrous turn of events that he exploded, destroying his altar… and silencing it.”
Baskt’s huge underslung jaw dropped partly open. From the holy altar, and from it alone, could their lord speak and instruct his servants. Without it, they were all masterless. Doomed. He asked quietly, “But you have the magic to build a new altar?”
“Yes,” she said, “and only a month ago I could have. But with the Queen of Serpents gone, there have been no slave caravans from the Land of Smoking Skies. The last was over a month ago. Consequently, there have been no carefully selected slave girls for me to feed upon, and I am losing strength rapidly.”
Arrogant pride flashed behind the lord’s eyes. “You don’t need the slave caravans. I’ll find the girls for you.”
“In the Inland Sea?” Her tone mocked him. “No,” he said, indignant. “I’ll gather the slavemasters. They’ll find all you want, bring them from the ends of the earth if they have to.”
“Arrrggg!” she growled. “There is no time for that! Besides,” she turned to Schraak, “there is no need. Schraak here knows where there is a girl who can supply all my needs.”
“One girl?” Baskt grunted in disbelief.
“Yes, my lord,” Schraak said humbly, and bowed. “She lives in the Great Forest Basin, in a village called Weaver.”
“A Barbarian,” Baskt scoffed.
“Yes, my lord, but she is young, not more than seventeen, and of a beauty that will amaze you. Her Kaa is strong! Terribly strong! More than pure enough to feed your queen. My mistress, Cobra, the Queen of Serpents, she examined her herself.”
Baskt, visibly impressed, shared a malignant smile of dark anticipation with his queen.
In that ancient world, the Kaa, the spirit, within all living things was still raw and powerful and untamed. Untainted and unweakened by fears aroused by sophisticated technologies and religions, unchained by the stifling limitations of scientific reasoning. Some were so pure and strong that they could be extracted by magical formulas, and extraordinary powers of sorcery. A few were so rarefied that they could be given substance, be transformed into powders and potions, then be administered to human beings. In this manner one Kaa was joined with another, doubling the strength and frequently transforming both nature and body. Tiyy, having lain with the Master of Darkness, carried his demon seed within her, and it gave her the rare and extraordinary powers required for such thaumaturgy. In addition, within her underground laboratory she held a living source of power with which she could manipulate and control the strongest Kaa and bend it to her sinister will.
The Nymph Queen nodded at Schraak and said, “Schraak has seen the Barbarian girl and, if he wishes to earn the rewards I have promised him, he will remember her well enough to identify her for you. Her name is Robin Lakehair. Now, assemble as many soldiers as you think you will need. You’ll leave immediately.”
Baskt shook his head. “I need no help to steal a girl.”
“I know,” she snapped. “Nevertheless, you will take it. This thief who stole the helmet is somehow linked to the girl. He may be guarding her, and with the helmet his strength will rival your own.” His grin grew with anticipation and she shook her head slowly. “No, Lord Baskt. If there is any way to avoid meeting this Barbarian, any way at all, you will do it. Understand? You will take no risks! None! This time, when you see a drop of water, you will harness your pride and not transform yourself into a shark just so everyone can see you do it. Your mission must be kept secret at all costs, or people will suspect what has happened to me.”
He hesitated, and bowed belligerently, barely dipping his head.
“Good,” she whispered, her voice feverish. “Now go! Fetch her! A few scraps of her meat, a bottle of her blood! That’s all I need.”
Five
THE HELMET
The border marker lay facedown in the dirt. A rectangle of stone of unremarkable color or size, its backside told Gath of Baal nothing.
He dismounted, turned it over using the toe of his boot. He could not read the words, but the crudely chiseled image of mountains and overhanging clouds told him he had reached the Land of Smoking Skies.
Five days had passed since he had left Noga Swamp, and each had been spent finding a new trail through diverted rivers, leveled mountains and upturned valleys and meadows. Now, just beyond the marker, he faced a tongue of hard lava nearly twenty feet in width. It receded, rising higher and higher, toward a low conelike hill, the remnant of a volcano. A meager spire of smoke rose out it, like a flag of surrender. The remains of larger volcanoes filled the surrounding area beyond it, their tops cut off as if by a giant knife. They rose off of low bald hills blackened by fire and radiating flows of hard lava. There was no sign of life on the ground or in the air, and the perpetual black clouds for which the Land of Smoking Skies was named had vanished.
Gath remounted his black stallion and rode up onto the tongue of lava.
There was no sign of the many staircases which had been carved out of the rocky cliffs. They were either crushed or buried, and the shadowed mouths of the mountains’ many caves had vanished, either swallowed by volcanic explosions or drowned by spewing lava. The ground itself had been rearranged, like a quilt kicked by sleeping feet. There was no indication of which volcano had held the underground chambers of the Queen of Serpents with its secret entrance to the living altar of her lord, the Master of Darkness.
He halted at the crest of a rise, and his eyes thinned.
The skeletons of men rose out of the lava flows, some buried to their knees, others to their skulls. More bodies were draped among the blackened branches of burnt-out oaks and pine trees, their bones picked clean by flying predators. There was no armor on the skeletons, and no weapons lying about: the booty, no doubt, of two-footed predators.
He turned one way, then the other, and saw a distant ridge of black lava. Beyond it, in the far distance, there was a patch of green forest that had somehow escaped both lava and fire. He looked back at the dead volcanoes, and his fingers drummed the head of his axe. A moment passed. He unbuckled the horned helmet from his belt and held it up with both hands.
Its living steel was warm against his calloused fingers, and the horns seemed to pulse and reach for him, daring him to defy its addictive power.
Snarling, he lifted the helmet over his head, as if to put it on as casually as he buckled his belt. But his blood and bones rebelled. The muscles in his forearms knotted and, with their veins bulging under sun-darkened flesh, resisted, instinctively afraid. They seemed to know that once the helmet covered his head there was every chance he could become its prisoner again, and could not remove it without the help of Robin Lakehair’s magic.
His face glistened hotly in the shade cast by the headpiece, then his pride welled up defiantly, and slowly his arms forced the helmet down until its rim descended over his forehead. A primitive pleasure shone behind his reckless eyes, then they vanished behind the metal, and the helmet was in place.
His harsh breathing was noisy behind the mouth hole. The whites of his eyes glittered briefly behind the eye slits, then a fiery red glow replaced them.
The mark of the Death Dealer.
Six
FORKED TONGUES
Gath drew his axe and prodded the stallion into a trot. His helmeted head moving from side to side. Alert. Expecting trouble. Wanting it.
Veins corded and throbbed along his forearms, and steam drifted from the sleeves of his chain mail as his blood, growing hotter, coursed through him. His senses sharpened and expanded, sending vibrations into his scalp and hair, then into the metallic flesh of the helmet and through its horns into pointed tips.
He prodded his horse into a gallop and moved deep into the enveloping landscape, rec
klessly riding through narrow guts and gullies designed by nature for ambush. But he felt nothing save the chill of the air flowing past him, and heard nothing but wind and cawing vultures.
He was deep in the domain of the Lord of Death, crossing over earth and rock in which the heart of darkness was buried. Here sin, corruption and murder were the coin of existence. Here the power of evil rivaled earthquake and tornado. But he saw only a mysterious foreboding void.
He turned off the tongue of lava, galloped up the side of a huge crater and reined up at the crest of the cone. Rubble filled its center: the opposite side had collapsed inward and sealed the volcano. Here there was not even a thin spire of smoke to proclaim its former majesty.
He rode down into the crater, turning and twisting the stallion between massive boulders, churning up clouds of fine dust. Finding nothing but earth and lava, and sensing no danger, he galloped back to the crest of the crater and again reined up. The helmet throbbed against his head, hungering for battle, and frustration spit flames from the eye slits. But he sat still in his saddle, defying the headpiece’s demands, and slowly the flames abated, the red glow died.
He spent the morning slowly and carefully searching the other craters, but found no cave entrances, no golden doors, no staircase cut out of lava, only the charred skeletons of lizards, pythons, adders and men with and without tails. Returning to the largest crater, he again searched the rubble filling the cone, and again found nothing. He remounted the crest and stood in his stirrups surveying the distant landscape.
Beyond the dead volcanoes to the north and west, mountains rose in steep cliffs to jagged peaks half hidden by clouds. To the east and south, the direction in which the molten lava and its trailing cloud of dust had traveled, the hills were strewn with rocks and beds of dust, bisected and decorated by puddles and rivers of hard lava.
[Death Dealer 02] - Lords of Destruction Page 2