“That and more, for it seems that by tradition the Nightriders must claim as leader the man who fairly defeats the reigning lord. This Glaeken returned with his new followers and taught Marag a grisly lesson.” Cragjaw glanced at his companion. “Could you be that Glaeken?”
“A good tale, my friend, but how could I and this bat-rider be one and the same? How could I be pillaging the Western Isles at night and ride the East Road in Prince Iolon’s domain with you today? Quite impossible.”
“Not so,” said Cragjaw with a sly grin. “For it is also said that after a year or two with the Nightriders, the man named Glaeken grew restless and dissatisfied. He left them to their own devices and no one knows where he travels now.” The squat little man made a point of clearing his throat. “Where travel you now, Glaeken?”
“To Elder Cavern in the eastern farmlands.”
“Elder Cavern! Why, that’s in the very center of the plague area. Nothing out there but dying farms and . . .” Cragjaw’s voice faded as he seemed to remember something. “Oh, I see. You must have answered the Prince’s notice.”
Glaeken nodded. “It seems that the mystery of the region’s woes has been cleared up. They’ve discovered that a sorcerer named Rasalom—a giant of a man, I’m told—entered the cavern nearly two years ago. Not too long thereafter the crops, the cattle, and the farmers in the area began to sicken. Rasalom has been neither seen nor heard from since, and the Prince’s advisors seem certain that he’s still in the cavern.”
“So the infamous Rasalom is behind it all,” Cragjaw muttered. “We’ve long thought it to be a plague of some sort, released from the cavern after eons of sleep.”
“The prince’s advisors were rather vague about the plague,” Glaeken said. “Do you know what it’s like?”
“Stories vary, but most agree that the victims complain of a throbbing in the head and ears and slowly begin to lose their strength, becoming very lethargic. Soon they cannot get out of bed and eventually they waste away and die. But what puzzled the court physicians was the curious fact that all victims seem to improve and recover when moved out of the area. No one could give a reason for this . . . but sorcery explains it well: Rasalom has laid a curse of some sort on the region.”
“So it would seem,” Glaeken agreed.
“But what purpose could he have? Why would he want to lay waste the eastern farmlands—for not only do people sicken and die out there, but cattle and crops as well.”
Glaeken shrugged. “Why is not my concern. I admit that I’m somewhat curious, but my task is merely to bring back Rasalom himself, or some proof of his demise, such as his Ring of Chaos, whatever that may be.”
“ ‘Tis rumored to be the most potent focus of power for black sorcery this side of the Netherworld. You will have to slay Rasalom to gain it, and that will not be easy.” He shuddered. “Not only does that wizard have the black arts at his command, but he is said to stand half again as tall as a tall man, and be three times as broad in the shoulders. No wonder Iolon has to send an outlander! No local man would set foot in Elder Cavern! I hope the prince is paying you well.”
“I seldom take on a gainless task.” Glaeken replied.
“If that’s true, then why did you aid me against those street thugs?”
Glaeken smiled. “I was quite willing to let them have their fun with you until I saw the harmohorn. I have a weakness for music and consequently a respect for musicians.”
They came to a crossroads when and Cragjaw turned his horse to the north.
“We part here, Glaeken,” he said. “I go to the prince’s summer quarters to prepare entertainment for the arrival of his entourage tomorrow. I would bid you ride south and have no further thought of Elder Cavern, but I know you’ll not heed me. So instead I bid you luck and hope to see you at the summer palace soon with either Rasalom or his ring. One word of warning though: travel quickly. Few who venture into that land nowadays are ever seen again.”
Glaeken waved and headed east. He did not quicken his pace.
The land was arid and vegetation generally scarce in Iolon’s domain, but as Glaeken penetrated into the eastern farmlands he became aware of an almost total lack of greenery. Bark-shedding trees lifted their dry, stunted, leafless branches skyward in silent supplication for surcrease of—what? And the further east he moved, the darker became the sky; gray clouds slid by, twisting, churning, writhing, and rolling as if suffering from an agony of their own as they passed over the region.
Long-rotted cattle carcasses dotted the fields on both sides of the road, the hides dried and matted and close-fitting in death, perfectly outlining the skeleton within. Glaeken saw no evidence that scavengers had been at the carrion, and then realized that he had not seen a single trace of beast or fowl since he’d entered the region. Even vultures shunned this place.
The motionless air became thick and heavy as he pushed on, his lungs labored at their task. As evening consolidated the gray of the sky to black, Glaeken was glad to dismount. He built a fire not too far off the road between a dead tree and a large stone. He gave Stoffral free rein to find what nourishment he could in the lifeless, desiccated grasses nearby, but the horse seemed to have lost all appetite. Glaeken, too, felt no hunger, unusual after half a day’s ride, but managed to force down some dried beef and stale wine
He was strangely tired and this gave him some concern. He had never been one to believe in sorcerers and evil magic, considering them little more than tales designed to frighten children. The only magic he’d ever seen had been the work of charlatans. Yet for a man of his age and fitness to feel so lethargic after a mere six hours on horseback was decidedly unnatural. Maybe there was something to this curse after all.
He moved away from the heat of the fire and sat with his back against the rock. The oppressive silence made him uneasy. Even the night bugs were quiet. He glanced about . . . no pairs of feral eyes reflected the firelight from the darkness around his little camp. That, too, was unusual. Slowly, his eyes grew heavy. Against his better judgment he allowed himself to doze.
. . . the sound grows in his brain by imperceptible degrees, a ghastly, keening, wailing cacophony of madness that assaults his sanity with murderous intensity . . . and as the volume increases there appear wild, distorted visages of evil, countless blank-eyed demons howling with mindless joy, screaming louder and louder until he is sure he must go mad . . .
Glaeken found himself awake and on his feet, sweat coursing along his skin in runnels. The fire had burned down to a fitful glow and all was quiet. He shook his head to clear it of the dream and glanced around for Stoffral. Gone!
Fully alert to danger now, Glaeken began shouting the horse’s name. Stoffral was too loyal a beast to desert him. His third shout was answered by a faint whinny from behind the rock. Glaeken cautiously peered into the darkness and saw the dim form of his mount on the ground. He ran to its side and made a careful check. The horse had suffered no harm and Glaeken concluded that Stoffral must be a victim of the same lethargy afflicting his master.
He slapped the horse’s flanks in an effort to rouse the beast back to its feet but to no avail. Stoffral’s strength seemed completely drained. Glaeken remembered the cattle carcasses along the road and swore that his steed would not suffer a similar fate. He stalked to the fire and lifted a branch that had been only partially consumed. Fanning it in the air until he tip glowed cherry with heat, he applied the brand to Stoffral’s right hindquarter. Amid the whiff of singed hair and the hiss of searing flesh, the horse screamed in pain and rose on wobbly legs.
Glaeken could not help but cast a fearful glance over his shoulder as he steadied his mount; horses were rare and highly valued creatures in the land where he had been raised, and any man caught doing harm to one was likely to be attacked by an angry mob. But pain or not, scar or not, Stoffral was on his feet now and somewhat revived. That was all that mattered at the moment. And the horse seemed to know instinctively that the act had been done without malice.
> Replacing the saddle on Stoffral’s back, he packed it with everything but the jerked beef, the waterskin, and the half-dozen torches he had fashioned before leaving Kashela. Then he shouted and slapped the horse’s flanks and chased him back down the road. Hopefully, Stoffral would await his master beyond the zone of danger.
Glaeken waited a moment, then shouldered his pack and began walking in the opposite direction. He’d have preferred to wait until morning . . . travel would be easier in the light. But Glaeken’s doubts about the supposed curse on the eastern farmlands had been thoroughly shaken. Perhaps something truly evil was afoot in the region. For all he knew, morning might prove too late if he waited for it. So he traveled in darkness.
Dawn lightened the perpetual overcast as Glaeken stood before the high arched entrance to Elder Cavern. He felt as if his eyes had been tom out and replaced with heated coals. His head buzzed and hummed; his sword had become a drag anchor. The very air weighed upon him like a stone. He stood swaying, questioning the wisdom of entering the opening before him. His strength had steadily declined during the night and he was now so weakened that he seriously entertained thoughts of abandoning his mission.
Everything seemed so hopeless. With barely strength enough to stand, he’d be insane to challenge a giant in stature and sorcery such as Rasalom. Yet he forced himself to stagger toward the cavern maw.
Part of his fogged brain screamed to turn back, but he kept pushing forward. He could not turn back, for he would never make it to the crossroads; he’d end up like the rotting cattle he’d had passed yesterday.
Why not simply lay down and die then?
Because he could not pass up the slim chance that he might find a way to outwit Rasalom. And of course the golden reward was a lure, as was his need to learn what lay behind the curse that weighed upon this region like a plague. And beneath it all, driving him like a whip, was that peculiar aspect of his nature that insisted he see a task through to its finish.
As he was engulfed by the darkness within, Glaeken paused, removed the tinderbox from his sack and ignited one of the torches. The flame flickered light off the walls and made marching armies of the stalactite and stalagmite shadows as he moved. His shuffling feet kicked up smelly clouds of dust that irritated his nose. He knew the odor well—bat dung, and none of it fresh. Even the bats were gone.
The tunnel sloped at a steep angle and the roof bore down on him until he had to walk in a slight crouch. The walls glistened with moisture as he plunged deeper and deeper into the earth, and his torch would hiss as it brushed against them. The odd, persistent humming in his brain grew louder and more distracting as he moved. He could only hope that the tunnel would lead him directly to Rasalom.
The passage broadened into a wider, higher chamber and Glaeken cursed as the torchlight revealed the problem he had hoped not to meet: three other tunnels opened into this same chamber. As he slumped against the wall in near complete exhaustion, his torch sagged and dipped into a brackish puddle. In sudden total darkness he fumbled for the tinderbox to light a fresh torch, then froze. Down the tunnel to the right trickled the faintest hint of illumination.
Glaeken forgot about torch and tinderbox and stumbled along the passage toward the beckoning tendrils of light. Rounding a corner he found himself in a dim, long-shadowed room. The walls were smooth and bare except for a few oil lamps flickering in sconces. A huge, throne-like chair rested in a dark corner, otherwise the room was empty.
Wary, Glaeken started to draw his broadsword as he moved further into the room, but the weight of it seemed so enormous to his weakened muscles that he let it slide back into its scabbard. He rested his hand instead on the handle of his dirk.
A massive door appeared to be cut into the wall to his right. Eyes darting constantly about the room, Glaeken approached it. He saw no latch, no ring, no handle, but the arcuate scratches on the floor before it were proof that the door did in some way swing open. Yet try as he might, he could not see how.
A voice rasped behind him: “There’s a hidden latch.”
The nape of his neck tingling with fear and surprise, Glaeken wheeled and peered closely at the massive chair in the corner. The seat lay immersed in Stygian shadow. He moved closer and faintly made out a human outline. Grabbing an oil lamp from the wall, he held it high.
As the shadows receded Glaeken saw that he faced a lank-haired skeleton of a man dressed in a robe once richly embroidered but now tattered and torn, foul and filthy.
“You must be strong-willed to have come this far,” said the seated figure in a voice like rats’ feet scurrying over dried corn husks.
“Who are you?” Glaeken demanded.
“I am called Rasalom.”
“I was told Rasalom is a giant of a man, not a mere bag of bones.”
“I am he, nevertheless,” Rasalom replied with a grin that was horrible to behold. “You no doubt started on your journey with visions of a terrible struggle against a huge, sword-wielding wizard. You foresaw a mighty battle with flashes of steel and shouts of fury. Yet look at us now: you can barely stand and I have not the strength to cast the most elementary of weirds.” He barked a harsh laugh. “What a comedy we play!”
But Glaeken could see no humor in the situation. He spoke with desperate determination.
“I’ve come in the name of Prince Iolon to put an end to this curse you’ve laid on the land.”
“I know all about Iolon and his reward,” Rasalom snarled. “He wants you to bring back Rasalom or his ring.” He fumbled within his robe and withdrew a large ring of intricately worked gold. It was set with a small, spherical black stone, so black that it seemed to absorb all light, appeared to be a rent in the very fabric of existence, a tiny portal to the nothingness beyond. The ring dangled from a golden chain.
“You wish the Ring of Chaos?” he said. “Here . . . take it. It no longer fits me and I have no further need of it.”
Glaeken stiffened visibly at the offer.
Rasalom smiled again. “No trick, I assure you. For why should I want to keep a mere Ring of Chaos when soon I shall be an integral part of Chaos itself?” The warlock’s eyes began to glow as he spoke. “I, Rasalom, have called forth the twelve hundred idiot demons of the Amphitheater! It took two years to complete the task. Each of the twelve hundred had to be summoned by a separate spell, and each spell took its toll. I was once as you were told—a huge, robust man. Look at me now! But I care not. Eternity is mine!”
Glaeken’s expression mirrored his doubts about Rasalom’s sanity.
“I don’t blame you for thinking me mad. But beyond that stone door you tried so futilely to move lies the Amphitheater of Chaos, and therein are assembled the twelve hundred idiot demons . . . the Choir of Chaos. They exist only to sing. There is no curse on the land . . . only their singing. For they sing to Chaos itself and the vibration of their song strikes discord in the life processes of all living things.”
“But you—”
“I am protected, for I am performing The Task. And what a task it is! The Lords of Chaos are wise. They know that to extend their domain they must occasionally accept new blood into their ranks. But the newcomer must prove beyond all doubt that he is worthy. So The Task was set, an ordeal that only a practitioner of the greatest skill and stamina could hope to accomplish. For each of the twelve hundred demons of the choir sucks a little bit of life from the one who calls it forth. I have raised them all and yet I still live! I am wasted but I have succeeded!”
“If this is success,” Glaeken said, “what would be failure?”
“Ah, but you see, within the Amphitheater the embryo of my new form gestates, slowly incorporating my being into its own as it matures. The time for parturition draws nigh. Soon I shall be eternal and all this world my domain!”
Glaeken remained unconvinced. “Your sorcery has wasted your mind as well as your body, Rasalom. Lift your curse and give me the ring and I shall leave you to your delusions. Refuse and my blade will end everything for you.�
�
“You doubt my word?” the wizard rasped. “I tell you there is no curse! The Choir of Chaos sings and its song is slow death to all within reach of it! You are dying as we speak, my foolish interloper. And you cannot threaten me with death, for that would only accelerate the embryo’s progress. I welcome death at this moment—it will bring my rebirth that much closer!”
Glaeken shook his head in dismay. How do you deal with a madman?
“Go!” Rasalom cried. “See for yourself! Pull the handle on the lamp by the door. The passage leads to the Amphitheater. View the Choir of Chaos. See my masterwork, and die!”
Wordlessly, wearily, Glaeken shuffled to the door. If Rasalom were mad, this would prove it. If sane, then Glaeken’s life—nay, his whole world—was in grave danger.
He pulled down on the lamp handle. It moved easily. Behind the wall he heard the clank of weights as they were released. Slowly, the door swung open to reveal a narrow passage lit with oil lamps similar to those in the room. The throbbing hum was louder here. Glaeken moved into the passage and saw another stone door at its end. This one was equipped with a ring latch. He grasped the ring and pulled on it, doubting very much that he had strength left to budge it. But the hinges were perfectly balanced and the stone slab swung toward him.
He repeated this procedure with the three identical subsequent doors and each time the hum increased in volume until at the final door it had risen to a muted scream. This door was doubly thick and vibrated with the intensity of the sound behind it. But it swung as easily as the others when Glaeken pulled on the ring.
The sound was a physical thing, washing over him with a volume and intensity that drove him to his knees. He crouched on the edge of a precipice and before him lay the Amphitheater of Chaos, an inverted cone, mistily illuminated by light that filtered up from the unguessed depths below. Carved into the rounded walls that sloped upward to the pointed roof were twelve hundred niches, and in each of those niches huddled one of the twelve hundred idiot demons.
A Soft Barren Aftershock Page 21