“It looks empty,” she said.
“Of man and beast, mayhap,” Dirk replied, sliding down from Masan's back. “We shall look, then move on.”
They descended the hill, skirting the black road as they approached the Haff Na-gar. Dirk kept his hood pulled low, and kept as much of Masan between himself and the doorway as he could. He let Afra go first, his left hand lingering on his knife's hilt. When they were a dozen yards away, Afra called out in her own language. She waited, but there was no reply but the wind. After a few moments, she walked up to the doorway, and slipped a loop from a small twig. She pushed the woven curtain aside, looked behind it, and cursed.
Dirk patted Masan, and stepped closer. Inside the shelter were several water troughs hung from low branches, and a small stack of cut grass bundled in a branch too high for mules to reach. A simple sleeping loft stretched between several of the higher boughs, and there were still rumpled blankets up there. While there were puddles of water in the bottom of the troughs, and the smell of beasts lingered strongly, there were no mules in the shelter.
“At least there are no watch boys,” Dirk said.
He stepped past Afra, grabbed some of the sweet grass, and carried it out for Crispa and Masan. The mules perked up, each snapping up mouthfuls of the grass and chewing loudly. When they'd finished, Dirk led Masan to one of the troughs, letting him drink his fill from what was left. Afra did the same with Crispa. Crispa made as if to go lay down when she'd finished drinking, and Afra had to tug hard on her reins to get her to walk back outside, clucking her tongue all the while.
“How much longer?” Dirk asked.
“If we are fortunate?” Afra said, glancing at the sky. “We could be there by night fall. Perhaps sooner.”
“Let us hope fortune continues to favor us,” Dirk said, re-attaching the closure on the door flap, and throwing a leg over Masan's back. Afra did likewise, and they urged the animals out onto the road.
There was no grace to their approach down the Karran Harr. No subtlety, or guile. They put their heels to their mounts, and rode. They kept a ground-eating pace, and both animals kept up with little complaint. Ahead of them, the vague shape began to take on features. It looked like a hill, but it had been cut at jagged angles. It jutted out of the landscape, like a rotten tooth broken off just above the gum line. As the afternoon grew stale, Afra slowed their pace. Dirk glanced behind them, but saw no one and nothing on their back trail.
“How near are we to the next watch post?” Dirk asked.
“Near,” Afra said. She gestured with her head toward the right side of the road. Dirk glanced over, and saw there were metal stakes rising from the earth just beyond the soldier course. Each bore a thick ring at the top, just below a cloven cap. They stood straight and dark as devils' hitching posts. “We are just past the halfway mark, now.”
It was less than a mile after the posts first appeared that a shape rose near the road. It was not another copse of trees, carefully tended for the needs of a traveler, but a tall shaft of stone. It was built from the same, glassy rock as the road itself, with a small footpath connecting it directly to the Karran Harr. A gap yawned in the base where a door had once stood, and small slitted windows ran round its sides. The top was flat, and appeared open to the sky. No light shone from within the tower, and no sentry stood post atop it. All the same, Afra drew rein within hailing distance, and raised her hand above her head. She lowered it, raised it, and lowered it again. A long moment passed, and she raised it once more, holding it aloft for a long breath before lowering it again. There was no answer from inside the small tower. No shapes stirred in the shadows near its base. Afra slowly let out a breath through her nose, and pulled her cloak tighter around her.
“Empty,” she said, though Dirk couldn't tell if the conviction in her voice was for his ears, or her own.
They put their heels to the mules, and the animals broke into a trot. Despite their speed, though, the Karran Harr seemed timeless, and changeless. Worse than the unchanging landscape of black stone and twisted trees, though, was the silence. There were no sounds of pawing or roosting from the trees. No snarls or howls, close or distant. No cries of birds either hunting or fleeing. Even the wind had died. The only noise was the sound of the mules' hooves on the road, and their breathing. Dirk's hand kept drifting to his dagger, his thumb stroking the hilt like a wire-wrapped worry stone. The skin between his shoulder blades rippled with gooseflesh, and every few miles he couldn't stop himself from turning to make sure they were not being followed.
Afra stopped thrice more before other stone spires, raising both her hand and voice in greeting. Thrice more her entreaties were met with silence. They rode on. As they drew nearer, Dirk could make out the details of the huge structure they rode toward. It was built from stone blocks, but they were bigger than any stone Dirk had ever seen quarried. The top seemed flat from below, and the stepped sides grew wider at every level. Huge figures were gouged into the stone, but though Dirk could clearly see them, he could make no sense of their meaning. Suddenly, the trees fell away, and they were no longer riding through a wilderness.
Stone foundations sat on either side of the road, crooked and half-submerged in the black earth. They looked like ancient bones sticking out of shallow, forgotten graves. Weathered plinths canted along the road as well, their inscriptions crisp and clear despite their age. He tried to focus on them, but the harder he looked, the more the shapes of the characters defied his gaze. Remnants of side streets tried to hold back nature's slow reclamation, and along those forgotten boulevards loomed the skeletons of decrepit buildings. Columns stood along the sides of the road, as well, and atop them were statues of ancient men and women. Many of them were adorned in strange robes, scaled boots, and tall hats that bore some kind of plume. Some were horned, with thick rings on their thumbs that bore long, curved hooks. Some stared down imperiously at the boulevard beneath their feet, and others had their gazes turned to look toward the height of the massive ziggurat. There was something wrong about the statues, though. Their faces were too broad, their bodies bizarrely out of proportion, and there was a universal feeling of strangeness to the carvings. As if they had been made by a sculptor who had heard stories of men, but had never truly seen one with his own eyes. Dirk was regarding the glowering faces, when Afra pulled Crispa to a halt.
They stood at the edge of a wide plaza. Eroded facades hemmed it in on all sides, and several of them were topped with fresh thatch that looked incongruous when paired with the ancient stone. Tents were staked on the few patches of earth not covered by stone, and a scorched fire pit sat in the center of the small gathering. No fire burned in the stone circle, though, and no one stood near the pit. The tents stood dark, as well, and though there were banners hanging out in front of some, each looked much like another to Dirk's eyes.
Dirk dismounted, and drew a slow breath of the place's dead air. His lips pulled back as he looked at the crumbling monuments, and the imposing hulk of the temple. It was an involuntary twitch, as if he were a hound scenting death. Whatever the Vor Dak'ham might have told the people they led here, there was nothing holy about that place. No fire burned at the base of that dark temple, and none burned atop it.
“This is not right,” Afra said, sliding down from Crispa's back and leading the mule behind a thick, twisted tree.
“The tents, you mean?” Dirk asked.
“If they were traveling, they would have brought them with,” Afra said. “Especially with the cold nights settling in. This makes no sense.”
Dirk led Masan behind the cover of the trees as well, hitching him next to Crispa. He looked over the camp once more, but nothing in it stirred. The fingers of his right hand started tapping out a slow rhythm on his dagger's sheathe. The light was growing dull as the sun dipped a hair's breadth lower in the sky.
“Go to your mother and father's tent,” Dirk said.
Afra nodded, and walked briskly into the camp. Dirk followed behind and to her right, stayi
ng in her shadow. He kept the hood of his stolen cloak pulled low, and his hands near his blades. There were no sounds as they approached the tents. No snores, no murmurs, nor the sound of silenced lovemaking broke the stillness. Afra unhooked the tent flap, and stuck her head inside. She shook her head, and stepped aside.
Dirk pushed the tent flap wide, and cast his eyes over the interior. There was a wide sleeping mat to one side, and a smaller one opposite. The blankets were in disarray, but there was no sign of struggle. Sheepskins hung on the walls, and hooks from the center pole held walking sticks, and travel packs. Dirk dropped the flap, and walked to another tent. Afra followed, casting worried glances all about. When Dirk opened the flap, he found much the same scene inside. He checked another, and another, but they all told the same story. These were places people lived, and places where they had grown comfortable. They also seemed to have left with little warning. They took no noticeable possessions with them, and nothing was packed away. But the people were gone, their beds cold. Dirk held his hand over a brazier that had been left near the side of a bed, and frowned.
“The coals are warm, but barely,” he said, standing and dusting off his hands. “Wherever they went, they left hours ago, no more.”
Afra said nothing to that. She worried the inside of her cheek, and glanced outside. Dirk followed her gaze, regarding the silent monolith that stood before them. The stillness was profound, and unbroken. Afra drew a shuddering breath, and squared her shoulders.
“We should go quickly,” she said, matching her actions to her words. “The light is fading, and I have no wish to be on those stairs when night settles here.”
Dirk followed Afra's lead, and matched her pace. She didn't run, but it was a near thing. Afra mounted the steps, but Dirk paused. At the base of the steps, off to one side, was a niche carved out of the black stone. It was an arched shelter with a stone bench inside. The sort of place monks would come to pray, or where travelers could rest in poor weather before ascending. No one sat there now. Near the niche was an iron stand that held a heavy, black bell. Dirk slipped his knife from his left hip, reached into the bell's wide mouth, and cut the heavy, horsehair rope. He withdrew the clapper, and tossed it into a shadowed patch of thick grass.
“What are you doing?” Afra asked, looking down from her ascent as Dirk sheathed his blade.
“Silencing the only sentry that appears to be here,” he said. “Go. I will not be far behind you.”
Afra shook her head, and turned her attention back to the stairs. She climbed with care, holding up her cloak in one hand, and keeping her shoulder near the wall. When Dirk followed, he could see why she took such care. The stairs were narrow, as if they'd been built for children, but even worse, they were irregular. Even Dirk, born and bred to mountain country, found himself taking pains with his footing at they rounded the first switchback. The wind buffeted them, the chill growing teeth as they climbed. With nothing to break it, the cold air whipped about their faces, and clawed at their guts.
As they climbed higher, they passed the carvings etched into the massive stones. They made no more sense up close than they had from below, but there were details that could not be seen from afar. Other figures, and writings, that would have been invisible to anyone not on the stairs themselves. In addition to the characters, though, there were figures playing out an eternal, wordless drama. Crude images of men stood, adorned in strange garb. Their hands were raised to the starry heavens. In addition to men, the faces of beasts Dirk had never seen pressed outward, as if the stone was a mere membrane between this world, and the world that contained such creatures. Clawed hands curled round the stones, and intricately wrought serpents slithered along the joints and steps. Dirk had to force his gaze away from it all, resisting the urge to slow his steps so he could puzzle out the meaning.
“What is this?” Dirk asked as they navigated another landing.
“Our ancestors, writ large,” Afra said, waving one hand up the wall. “The journeys of the first priest king, and his queen as they bowed before the heavens, and first heard its words. How they tamed the beasts, and how they summoned spirits from past the veil to raise their temple. How they were crowned beneath the sky, and how they blessed the land beyond.”
Afra was drawing a breath to say more, when her foot slipped. Before she could fall, Dirk had a hand under her arm. They hung over the precipice, muscles trembling as they resisted the pull of the ground below them. Afra swallowed, and carefully found her footing once more. She drew away from the edge of the stairs, panting and gasping.
“My thanks,” she said, her words shaky as she resumed her climb.
“Why are these stairs so treacherous?” Dirk grunted.
“A test of faith,” Afra said. “Like the carvings. Those who desired to see the priests were made to crawl, and to regard the story as they climbed on bloodied hands and knees. It ensured only the penitent and the desperate would be willing to approach.”
Dirk had nothing to say to that, so he kept climbing. As they rose, he kept one eye on the steps beneath his own feet, and one eye on the steps beneath Afra's. There were several, small slips, but neither lost their footing entirely. Afra's breath came hard as they crested the final stair, and sweat beaded her brow even in the cold. Dirk breathed easily, but his calves burned from the climb.
Before them stood a labyrinth of statues. Great beasts with their heads thrown back in silent roars stood in a half-circle, seemingly guarding five corridors that all led off in different directions. Past them stood huge statues of men covered in armor that made them look like gigantic insects, and standing atop thin pedestals were faceless figures in carved robes holding aloft bent blades like those carried by the Hann Dak'ham. A tangle of limbs and heads sprouted from further along the stone garden, forming a montage that was hard to take in as a hundred strange sights each blended one into the other. Dirk glanced to the side of the stairs, spying a stone bench within another, sheltering niche. A second bell hung in a covered cage by the stairs, and next to it was a fire pit. The coals in the pit were dead, the stone rim chill to the touch.
“Where do we go now?” Dirk asked, cutting out the bell's tongue and burying it beneath the cold ashes.
“Follow in my footsteps,” Afra said, crouching down. The characters that marked the walls had surged over the lip, and they puddled across the roof. They formed strange patterns that twisted in and out of each other, but Afra had no trouble locating the one she sought. She touched one line of words with her finger, stood, and walked forward slowly. Dirk followed, making sure he was never more than a step behind her.
Afra turned, and turned again, weaving her way through the tangle of statuary with barely a glance at the figures she skirted. She stopped three times, crouching to feel the carvings along the floor as the shadows began to swallow the lanes. Dirk asked no questions, and provided no distraction. He didn't even glance at the dimming sky. The sun would not slow its set just because his gaze was upon it, and he wanted to miss no detail of the route. They passed under an archway made by two huge, bent figures with their hands on each other's shoulders, and Afra let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Before them was a throne. The huge chair was large enough that a big man would seem a small child sitting in it, and every inch of its surface was wrought in intricate details. To Dirk's eyes it looked like a low-hanging thunderhead; full of silent judgment, and brute menace.
“The passage below begins here,” Afra said, gesturing to the space beneath the throne.
Just beneath the lip of the seat, nestled among gazing eyes and veiled grotesques, there was a carving in the shape of an arched doorway. Through the doorway was a figure that was at once human, and not, with elongated limbs hidden beneath a heavy robe. The figure was surrounded by a web of stars, and it floated in the blackness beyond the portal. The sight of it made the skin on the back of Dirk's neck tighten as nothing else in the stone garden had. An unbroken series of characters led around the frame, drawing attention to the edges. The
symbols were jagged, and looked as if they'd been torn into the stone, rather than carved with care.
Afra slowly drew her finger along the symbols, pressing against concealed spaces. She murmured as she went, speaking in her own tongue. She winced once, as an edge of stone bit her fingertip, but she did not slow until she had reached the end. As she traced the last figure, there was the sound of stone grinding against stone. Afra pushed against the center of the seal with both hands, and the doorway swung open. It revealed stairs spiraling down into blackness, and the smell of dank secrets left to rot. When the wind died, though, there was something else. A low rumble, as of many voices raised in unison.
“What is that sound?” Dirk asked, leaning into the stairway to hear more clearly.
Afra frowned, her forehead furrowed in confusion. As she listened, the confusion was replaced by a look of dawning horror.
“The Karra Yann,” she whispered.
“What does that mean?” Dirk growled.
Afra jumped, and shook her head hard. “The prayers before the sunset sacrifice.”
Dirk loosened his dagger in its sheath, and smiled. There was no goodness in the expression.
“Then we should hurry,” Dirk said.
Chapter Twenty
They descended the stairs, and entered a strange, dark world. Afra paused only to light a candle, cupping the flame so it wouldn't blow out as she hurried. She led Dirk through an upper chamber, and her dim light flickered along walls that seemed almost alive with strange visions. They passed empty niches filled with staring skulls and charred bones, skeletal hands clasped as if in prayer. They passed through high, arched chambers filled with shadows and silence, and they hurried down hallways flanked by falls of water that fell away into endless drops. The chanting never ceased, and it didn't seem to be growing any closer. It sounded as if the temple itself were murmuring in its sleep, intoning the same nonsense phrases again, and again.
Crier's Knife Page 24