Shattered Stone

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  Skeelie said, “Well, at least our clothes are dry. We were cold, we wanted to be warm.”

  “Warm. Not singed.” He knelt to examine Celic’s burned leg. They didn’t even have water to ease the burn—and all of them were thirsty now—no salve to help her, nothing. They stared back at the flaming lake, then turned away from it, sick at the close escape. The smell of burning flesh and hair filled the cave.

  Red reflections from the fiery lake glanced across the cave walls. The hurt bitch moaned, then was still. She was a gentle, deep gray little wolf. “Celic,” Ram said. “Celic.” She looked at him with kindness in spite of the pain. They went on at last, Celic hopping on three feet. The cave grew smaller, then larger again, always lit by a dull light as if fissures opened somewhere above them. When they made a crude camp at last, the wolves paced guard, several at a time, as the children slept. They came, near to noon the next day, to a honeycombed expanse through which they must crawl. Blind white lizards scuttled away, stirred by their vibrations against the stone. Skeelie shivered. “We must be near the other side of the mountain by this time. And we keep dropping.”

  That will make the climb longer, up into Tala-charen.”

  “There’s nothing growing, no morliespongs, our food wont last long if . . .”

  “Maybe—maybe between the mountains something will be growing. We’ll need water. There’s nothing, just those trickles in the rock.” The children had lapped at the damp rock just as the wolves had, absorbing every drop into their dry throats.

  The cave grew narrower, the ceiling lower. They were so thirsty. The weight of the mountain above them was oppressive. Celic kept up on her three legs very well. Ram felt the powers converging on Burgdeeth, knew that the slaves would come out soon through the completed statue, to challenge Venniver. That the Pellians were drawing close to Burgdeeth. The power that lay in Tala-charen could help Jerthon; and without it, the battle would be bloody indeed, very close. He pressed on, pale and silent.

  The tunnel grew very tight, almost completely dark. HarThass’s darkness rode with them; the mountain whispered with voices that touched their minds then vanished. “I’m afraid,” Skeelie said quietly, but did not slack her pace. Something cold pushed past them unseen; the air stirred suddenly.

  Then in the distance they saw flame blocking the tunnel, a nearly human figure with fire playing over its warty hide. Ram felt out to touch its sullen cruelty; then slowly and carefully he spun a web of confusion, deluding, misleading until at last it turned away into some dark fissure. When they passed the narrow opening, they saw its red reflection moving. Fire ogre. “Cruel, but mindless,” Ram said to reassure himself; but it didn’t reassure him.

  And he felt the gantroed, knew it crawled in caves directly above them, ever pacing them.

  There’s a stair ahead,” Skeelie said. “Look.” They could just make out a narrow, twisting stair leading upward; they ran, began to climb at once, feeling their way with care, clinging to the stone steps. The wolves growled at something Ram could not sense and pushed on quickly upward.

  Finally they thought the air was fresher; then they began to see the steps clearly, and there was light coming down from above them. Soon they could see the stormy sky and feel the damp wind in their faces. They came up out of the well of stairs into the sky; and ahead rose Tala-charen, its peak lost in cloud. They had only to cross the green saddle of valley that ran like a bridge across empty sky. The setting sun cast one harsh orange streak beneath the boiling clouds, then disappeared.

  They started down across the meadow, and when their feet touched soft grass, the wolves lapped moisture from the blades. Ram turned to wait for them and felt the mountain lurch, the earth beneath them jolt sickeningly. He grabbed Skeelie, threw her down as the wolves went belly low. The mountain rocked. Ram felt the Seer’s power, knew HarThass would wait no longer. The ground rocked so hard he thought the earth would tear away. The empty spaces below them heaved up. “Crawl!” he shouted uselessly, for they were all crawling across the swaying meadow. “Get into Tala-charen.”

  *

  They could see its entrance, a thin opening, dark. And then suddenly fire ogres appeared in that dark hole, blinking as if the tumult of the earth had driven them from sleep. Ram tried to stand up, feet apart, and the valley shook, and the lower peaks tipped and swam. Thunder echoed. Fawdref pushed close to him. They were spun toppling again, clinging to the unstable earth.

  The entrance to Tala-charen blurred, was lost in a burst of flame as more fire ogres emerged. The wolves moved forward, teeth bared. All the forces of Ere seemed to converge as the two mountains lurched. Stones broke away, went tumbling down. They heard a crack and saw flame burst from a peak far below.

  At last they had crossed the rocking valley, knelt against the mountain in terror as boulders rolled and fell crashing. The fire ogres came toward them, ranked close, reaching. Skeelie’s knife was poised to strike; she screamed without sound. Fawdref leaped, and the stink of burning fur filled the wind. Ram grabbed him, wrapped his arms around him to extinguish flame, shouting the words of the bell: demanding. An ogre had Celic, flame covered her. Wolves cried out as they bit through flame. “Now!” Ram screamed, his fury more than his own; and caught his breath as rain came crashing, thundering down at his bidding.

  The flames were drowned. Naked fire ogres like great toads fled falling over stones, back into the fissure. The wolves rolled in rain, killing fire. Ram stroked and stroked their poor burned faces.

  They ran at last through the entrance, drenched, safe as long as they remained wet; ran past flame-filled caves, past staring eyes, fiery hands reaching then drawn back, to a spiral flight thin as glass; ran, loving the clammy feel of their wetness as they surged upward, wolves and children; and heard the ogres start up the steps behind them.

  ELEVEN

  Venniver reached to spear some roast stag from the tray Tayba held, then returned to his argument with Theel. He hardly noticed her. “. . . doesn’t matter, he’s of no use now, I’m finished with him. The statue . . .”

  “He could be of use,” Theel said dryly. “Making tools. The forgeman—there’s a lot needed. One forgeman can’t—”

  “We’ll have more craftsmen soon. Next time we go down into Zandour to trade.”

  “I suppose so,” Theel said. “The Seer is a troublemaker.”

  She turned away, sick at what Venniver intended; sick with the unease that had gripped her all afternoon, that held her now with such power that every movement seemed an effort. Her mind was hazy, confused. She heard Venniver say, “He could make problems. We . . .” Her thoughts turned coldly to the statue in the square.

  She had stood beneath gathering storm clouds just before she came in to serve supper, led inexorably to the square to stare up at the complete statue, the rearing bronze god, the winged horses lifting against a last harsh slash of sun that died quickly. She had been touched with awe at its beauty, but had felt something else, too. Something imminent and secret and upsetting. The statue was completed. Something would happen now. Was happening. Ram’s danger was part of it—and a seething, terrible turmoil in the minds around her that she could not—would not—decipher. That was part of it. Forces looming, drawing in . . . the statue . . .

  But her mind led her away from the statue in a morass of confusion, away from some knowledge. She could not settle, stood staring at the roast stag, the smell of it nauseating her. What force was all around her, pressing at her? She closed her eyes. What was it she should know? The statue—she felt Jerthon push into her mind suddenly, taking away that which she had almost seen, almost known. She stood scowling, her hands like ice.

  Confused and frustrated, she left the dining hall at last to stand in the door to the street.

  The damp rising wind changed direction, fitful as a cat. The clouds lay low, heavy as stone. Rain would come soon. The fading light was gray and dull. As she turned, she saw a figure slipping behind a building; a slave, she thought, a slave alone and fr
ee, hiding in shadow. Yes, the slave called Pol. Thin, freckled beneath a thatch of red hair. Hiding from the guards. Why was he . . . ? And suddenly and clearly, a vision flooded her mind. She stood hardly breathing; Seeing, knowing; knew the slaves had escaped; knew Jerthon’s plan, every detail in one terrifying instant.

  They had come out of the statue’s hollow base through a little door. Even now while she stood staring at the empty street they were moving through the town unseen, attacking the guards in the tower, taking the weapons there, breaking the cell door from without to make it seem that was their way of escape; were sealing the hole in the cell floor with mortar, sealing the side tunnel into the pit they had left only a little hole up into the grove among boulders; that, and the entrance in the statue, its door so cleverly made that a man could stare right at it and never know it was there.

  She knew where more weapons were cached. She knew where Dlos had hidden food in the storeroom. She turned, drawing in her breath. At that moment slaves were slipping down the corridors of the Hall behind her, stealing into rooms, snatching up weapons. She clutched at the wall, fear gripping her, and a terrible urgency.

  They meant to take Burgdeeth. Her pulse was pounding. Venniver would die this night. She felt a terrible tenderness for him suddenly, a oneness with him that she had never felt for another—in spite of his cruelty. Because of his cruelty, perhaps. Because of his genius. Burgdeeth as he planned it would die this night. The Temple, the beautiful Set . . . Venniver’s dream.

  She fled back into the hall. Venniver was laughing at some joke; she could not make him listen, shook his shoulder impatiently, driven by urgency and sickened by something that tried to silence her. Venniver turned, scowling, as she fought for breath.

  “What is it? What?”

  “The slaves, they . . . The battle within her was fierce, as if hands gripped her and twisted her away. She could hardly speak. “The slaves,” she choked at last, “the slaves are out—with weapons.”

  The guards were on their feet snatching up swords and sectbows, Theel staring at her for a moment then hurrying away. Venniver held her wrist in a steel grip. “How? How did they get out?”

  “I don’t know. I saw them in the street. I don’t know how, they—they will kill you!” She felt sick at what she was doing, could not control her trembling.

  He loosed her wrist, rose, and swung away from her. She stood staring after him in turmoil; and she saw Ram suddenly in a vision against the boiling sky as if he stood on top the world, saw him thrown to the ground, falling, boulders pelting down, and felt immense forces battling there. Then she saw riders pounding fast up along the river toward Burgdeeth, their horses slick with rain, their wet capes whipping in the wind, their faces—EnDwyl. EnDwyl and the Pellian Seers approaching fast as Venniver’s guards battled slaves in the dark streets. She was Seeing, she thought, swallowing. Seeing—willing herself to See.

  She saw Jerthon’s eyes then, demanding something of her, saw the danger she had wrought for him, his anger; didn’t know who was right or if there was a right. She saw men locked in battle, men fall in their own blood; she stood gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

  The slaves would die because of her. Would die. Jerthon would die. . . .

  But the dark pulled at her and soothed her. She saw HarThass’s soldiers plunge across the river into the streets, saw Jerthon facing two guards in desperate battle. She heard Ram scream out in fury, fierce as death itself.

  She ran out into the street, stood staring in panic at the bloody fighting, saw a slave lying dead beside the steps.

  She knelt, opened the dead man’s fingers, and slipped his bloody sword from his hand.

  *

  The children ran up the spiraling flight past rooms open to the winds, and heard fire ogres screaming behind them; past bright rooms and saw only flashing colors as they ran, their breaths catching. The flight ended in a fall of water. They dove in, stood beneath the downpour as the red flame of fire ogres drew close outside, gibbering, unable to enter.

  They came out soaking into a beautiful room, its window thick in the mountain wall, its curved benches deep with bright pillows. At one side a flight led up. They climbed. No one had breath to speak. In the next chamber, water fell again, and in the next twelve chambers led upward, and outside the windows the sky darkened, and rain came whipping to damp the thick sills. Lightning broke the night, and thunder; and that other dark rose with them, an incubus they could not shake. And as the wolves gazed upward, the lust of killing came into their eyes. Ram stopped on a stair and took Fawdref’s heavy head in his hands. The great wolf’s eyes were full of a need that chilled and excited him; and Fawdref’s mind gave back only silence.

  “They want to kill,” Skeelie breathed, watching. She stared upward toward the unseen hollow peak of Tala-charen. “What is up there? They . . .”

  “Whatever it is, HarThass—HarThass is there too. His forces are in Burgdeeth, are fighting Jerthon, bloody in the streets, in the dark rain.” He swallowed. “But he is there above us too—waiting.”

  They hurried on, the wolves predatory and stalking. They came at last to the top of Tala-charen, into a cave lit softly by the glowing stone of the floor, as if they stood on a lake of bright water. Skeelie stared at it, hesitating to step, as if it would give way. “What is it?”

  “Termagant. You know, in the myth of the sea god, the stone that catches daylight and holds it for the night.”

  She stared, then stepped delicately. And as their eyes grew accustomed, the cave seemed to brighten even more. The walls undulated around the curved open space in the natural formation of the mountain, with a ceiling curving down, a smooth dome decorated all over with inlaid stone in the patterns of animals: the triebuck, mythical creatures, and stag and winged horses and birds, great golden lizards, flying snakes colored like jewels.

  It was quite empty, a cool empty room; yet the wolves stood growling, heads lowered. And as the children watched, they became increasingly uneasy. A mist began to form. Only a darkness at first in the center of the cave. Then a deep shadow. Then a cloud, thick and growing heavy.

  And it was more than a cloud: it was a shape growing thicker until soon its writhing mass filled the cave. Snakelike, coiling, pushing against walls and ceiling.

  Its blunt head sought them, its tongue licked out, its tendrils reached to caress them. Its hungry mouth was fanged, its breath stinking of death. Its pale eyes watched them, and it knew why they had come.

  *

  Tayba wiped blood from the sword where the slave’s hand had held it, hefted it to get the feel of the grip, then slipped out into the street.

  Men shouted, she could hear swords clash; rain swept in her face, dark shapes lurched, appeared suddenly in the downpour and disappeared. She dodged lunging men to search, nearly fell over a fallen, screaming horse. Her hands shook, she ran with fear crowding her—and the dark leading her; knew Venniver and Jerthon had met in battle, ran—there, in the alley.

  The dark pulled her on. She felt horror, suddenly and sharply, and did not know why. She reached the alley, saw Venniver’s sword flash through rain. She gripped cold metal. Fury and eagerness took her. She stared at Jerthon. . . .

  Then suddenly she went dizzy, was ignobly sick against the stone wall.

  Afterward she crouched, drenched and shivering, very ill, staring at the battle; not knowing what she had wanted to do or why she had come. Metal rang as a sword struck stone. “Venniver,” she whispered, her lips numb.

  *

  The gantroed’s tendrils snaked out; its open mouth wanted blood. Ram dared not take his eyes from it, felt HarThass in it. Fawdref leaped again, the wolves tore at it. Ram hacked snaking tendrils from the great worm, then he raised the bell. His own power seemed small. The beast twisted, a tendril seared his arm. Tendrils flashed around Fawdref, choking him. The wolf fought, snarling, fangs cutting deep. The gantroed coiled tighter. Ram screamed the words of the bell, reached to tear power from Ere’s n
ight; and the gantroed had Skeelie, pulling her flailing toward its hairy mouth. She knifed at the great tongue; the creature screamed and loosed her.

  Ram saw Jerthon fall in battle, saw Tayba . . .

  Wolves were knocked away by flailing tendrils, leaped again. The gantroed reared, Ram plunged his sword into its pale stomach. It coiled over them screaming. Ram went sick at Tayba’s intent. A wolf leaped, knocked him away as the gantroed struck, its teeth grazing him. He brought his sword across it, into the worm, but his mind was filled with Tayba, his power was with Tayba, turning her, forcing her. Wolves clung like flies to the stinking hide. The coils grew smaller, crushing them. The creature’s blood flowed yellow. Ram felt the dark forces sway; then he saw with surprise that Skeelie was far back in the cave, nearly crushed by the swinging coils.

  She crouched beneath the gantroed, dodging as she searched along the cave walls. The snake slammed against her, slapped at her mindlessly with its wormlike arms as it fought Ram and the wolves. Ram rolled away from the churning wolves and ran. Behind him wolves leaped in unison for the gantroed’s head. He heard Skeelie scream, thought she was crushed; he slipped, fell, was pressed into a corner as tentacles lashed him—but he felt the power drumming, a different power now.

  He rose, fought to reach her, saw her tearful, frantic face as she searched wildly along the wall with clutching hands. “I can—there is something. I can feel it, but it won’t come clear for me. Ram . . .”

  He touched the wall, and it vibrated under his fingers. He felt along it, his fingers sensitive. The gantroed lunged into them, knocking them against the wall. Something—there. The power came strong. He drew out his knife and began to dig at the stone, a bull’s heavy form—yes. Behind it an empty space. He pried stones out, they fell away to lie scattered across the floor.