Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  Just as Dirk was beginning to lose his bearings, they entered a gigantic, underground atrium. It was a honeycomb of black stone. Narrow archways and yawning doors led onto a hundred times a hundred darkened chambers. Yawning faces carved into the walls held oil lamps, their open mouths shedding what little light there was. Staircases connected the galleries, but beyond the slender, fluted columns that supported the upper walkways there was naught but empty air. The chanting echoed up from below; dozens of voices reverberating until they became a single, garbled whole. Fires blazed below, the crackling roar joining the chorus as they continued their prayers.

  Afra edged toward one of the columns, taking care to hide as much of herself behind it as she could while she looked down into the pit below. Dirk joined her, slipping behind a neighboring column before peering down. The nadir of the ziggurat was a huge, round chamber. The walls and floor gleamed, polished smooth by untold numbers of hands, and covered in script that flowed in long ribbons across the stones. Rows of boys and girls in white filled the space, their heads all bowed in supplication. Men and women knelt behind them, their voices raised as well. It was hard to count them from this distance, but there appeared to be a hundred of them, give or take a few heads. Fires burned hot and bright in stone pits, and Dirk could see twelve other archways leading into the room. In the center of the space was a huge stone the color of moonlight. Above the stone was a raised dais, and on that dais was a black altar. A man was tied to the altar, a leather gag forced between his teeth. He'd been lashed naked and spread-eagled to the stone, the knots digging into his ankles and wrists. He was trying to shout, thrashing and tugging at his bonds, but they were far stronger than he was. Even as high up as he was, Dirk recognized his cousin. At one side of the sacrificial table loomed a giant of a man. He bore a thick, dark beard, and his arms were folded across the slab of his bare chest. He wore no ornaments, and carried no weapons other than a long, straight blade on his left hip that reached nearly to his knee.

  Dirk didn't waste his breath on curses. He stepped back from the edge, and headed toward the nearest staircase. He unclasped his stolen cloak as he went, letting the eye-catching white garment fall to the ground behind him. Afra hissed something at his back, but Dirk wasn't listening. He slipped down the stairs, and faded into the arching ziggurat's unquiet shadows.

  The galleries seemed arranged in no particular order. Dirk passed rooms that smelled of moldering parchment and ancient skins, and chambers where water dripped and incense burned. Some rooms had walls that glowed a soft, pale green, and others were filled with a blackness that spoke of a room that was full of more than nothing. Dirk did not slow his steps, and he spared little more than a glance into each room he passed. The cries from below rose and fell, and as he drew near to the temple's lowest chamber, the words began to pull away from each other. To become individual things once more. Dirk still couldn't ken them, but the words sat wrong in his ears. They were harsh, guttural, and more like the howls of beasts than the language of any men he'd ever come across.

  Dirk had just set foot on the last gallery, when the chant below him ended. In the sudden stillness, he froze, every muscle vibrating with the need to continue. He took shallow breaths through his open mouth, panting quietly as he listened. All he heard were the crackling flames, and the shuffling of the knot of people below. Then he heard the sound of bare feet on stone. A moan rose from those gathered; half awe, and half terror. Dirk edged closer, and peered down.

  A woman stood before the altar now, her arms raised above her head. Swathed in a gossamer gown that left little to the imagination, she was slender of limb, with a dark olive complexion that bore neither scar nor blemish. Her hair was pale smoke, and it floated around her head in a soft halo. Her face was unlined, and the dark bow of her mouth was nearly sensual as she wrapped her lips around the ungainly incantation she spoke to those gathered before her. It was her eyes, though, that commanded attention. They were the color of a mountain spring, and deep enough for the unwary to drown in.

  “Ya-ra, shan to pheleam agar,” Lanissara said. She did not shout, but her voice filled the chamber from foundation to roof. She raised a fist-sized stone in one hand, and gently settled it into the Pearl. The Pearl began to glow, a gentle light radiating from its stony heart. “Ha'reem, Path gar, en phan knutt, Bah!”

  The attendants raised their heads, repeating Lanissara's words with a unison that spoke of practice, and terrified fervency. Their eyes shone brightly, and their gazes were fixed on the huge, pale stone that sat before them. Many of them were crying. Some were bleeding. But none of them faltered in their recitation. Lanissara lowered her arms, and the chants ceased. Tharn stepped forward, drawing the blade from his hip, and offering it to Lanissara with both hands. She hefted the weapon, and turned to Teller. Teller's eyes were on the blade, but then they flicked up over her shoulder. Teller's forehead creased, then his eyes went wide. He screamed, the cords in his neck standing out as he tried to be heard.

  Dirk rushed to the edge of the gallery, and leaped. He'd spent his boyhood among sheer cliffs and jagged peaks, and to his eyes the temple's carved buttresses and engraved pillars were as good as any trodden path. His hands gripped the glass-slick stone as he trod on the heads of forgotten kings, and the outstretched arms of terrified supplicants. He leaped lower, then slid down the side of a pillar until his weight slammed into the top of a leering grotesque. Dirk crouched, then leaped again, barreling toward the confused ranks of Lanissara's faithful. He hit the ground with his knees bent, tucking his shoulder and rolling over twice. He came up running, arms pumping as he moved toward the dais. Some of the children shouted, surprised to find him in their midst, and others just stared at him, blinking like they'd just woken from a dream.

  “Anoren Ra!” Lanissara screamed from the dais, whirling fast enough to lift the hem of her gown. “Fae sheem ka Ra!”

  Several of the Hann Dak'ham leaped to their feet, their bent blades in hand. A thick-shouldered youth bellowed a challenge, bringing his blade down with power, but no grace. Dirk sidestepped the swipe without breaking stride, hammering his knife up under the young man’s jaw. Teeth splintered, and blood fountained as he fell in a heap. Two others ran at Dirk from either side, trying to take him off-guard. Dirk’s steel flashed, and a hand went bouncing along the stones still clutching its knife. He batted the second warrior’s hand away, before slicing through his throat. The man fell to his knees, grabbing at the ruin of his neck as Dirk ran past him. A hand reached for him out of the corner of his eye, and Dirk snatched it, pulling the owner onto his outstretched blade before letting him fall to the ground with his compatriots.

  The sight and smell of blood soured the courage of those who remained. They backed away, standing in a half-circle; unwilling to flee, but none wanting to be the next to approach. With a grunt Tharn leaped from the dais, and strode through their ranks. The giant's lips split to reveal square, yellow teeth. Eagerness burned in his dark eyes, and was evident in every flex of his ursine muscles. Teller had ceased his thrashing, and was laughing hysterically, half-choking behind his gag.

  “Stop,” Tharn said, his voice a low, menacing growl. “And your death will be swift.”

  Dirk didn't stop, or even slow. Tharn's grin widened. He spread his arms, and lowered his head, rushing in to meet Dirk. Tharn feinted low with his left hand, and brought his right around with the fingers spread, ready to grab. Tharn had expected Dirk to slow, or to break right or left, because that was what a canny fighter would do. Instead, Dirk came on, and let his Talent sing.

  His knife sank deep, biting into Tharn's armpit. Piercing the heavy knot of the heart was like stabbing into beating gristle. Dirk twisted, pulled, and sank the steel in again. He tore it free, before sliding it between two of the big man's ribs. Tharn's lung collapsed, sucking at the edge of the knife. He scrabbled at the back of Dirk's neck, trying to get a hold, but Dirk pressed forward. He jammed the blade into the side of Tharn's neck, slicing clean through the art
eries on both sides of Tharn's throat, and parting his windpipe. Tharn stumbled, then toppled like a tree. His knees collapsed, and his hands reached for balance that wasn't there. Death had claimed him three times over in as many seconds, and Dirk had barely slowed his pace.

  The Hann Dak'ham broke when they saw Tharn fall. They backed away in all directions, several throwing down their weapons to show they were no threat. Dirk paid them no mind. Lanissara stared at the butchered meat that had been her faithful hound, her eyes wide and disbelieving. Her gaze tracked to the puddle of blood beneath him, and the spatter that covered the side of the Pearl. She shook herself, hefted Tharn's heavy blade, and ducked behind the altar. She gripped the hilt in both hands, raising it high over Teller's chest.

  “Insarn, Ya-Ra, farack la-hi!” Lanissara bellowed, bringing the blade down. Teller screamed, and Dirk bolted up the stairs of the dais. That was when the chamber shook, stones split, and something kept too long in the dark began dragging itself into the firelight.

  Dirk stumbled, sprawling against the altar hard enough to jar his shoulder. Lanissara faltered, and instead of piercing Teller's heart, the blade sliced along his ribs. He shouted, and blood flowed into the channel all around the altar. Not much, but some. Dirk shook the hair and the stars from his eyes, and shoved himself to his feet. What he saw when he stood was enough to freeze the blood in his veins.

  The Pearl had shattered like a dropped egg, and something was pushing its way out of the remains. Something with a trunk dark as the inside of midnight, and covered in bristling hairs. It was like a spider, but wasn't. It had too many legs, too many teeth, and too many eyes. It burbled up from the shattered stone like smoke, molding itself into a brutal, terrible form that the world around it tried to reject. It reared higher and higher, its bulk sucking up the light cast from the fires and giving back nothing. It chittered, a sound like an ice shelf breaking. There were no prayers in the thing's presence. No voices raised in cheer, and no heads bowed in reverence. There was only stark, naked, animal terror. The tang of it filled the chamber, wafting up from those who gazed at the horror that they had been a part of calling forth.

  Lanissara was the one exception. She stood gracefully, her face raised toward the creature she had called up. Her countenance shone with the beatific pleasure of the truly mad. It wiped away her beauty, and showed what truly lurked beneath her skin. She stepped forward, raising her arms in supplication.

  “Isa, Ya-Ra! Fa tut, an haran, gra-”

  The dark shape lowered its head on a boneless neck, and its maw gaped open. Barbed tendrils erupted from the cavernous jaws, lashing around Lanissara. They forced themselves into her mouth, stopping her words. Her jaw popped out of place, and her throat bulged obscenely. She tried to tear free, but she was held fast. Her eyes went wide, and she gagged. There was a sickening, rending sound, and her head tore free from her shoulders. Blood sprayed, and her body twitched once before the thing released it, letting it fall into the fire pit with a whoosh.

  The congregation screamed, and chaos erupted. Children ran shrieking for the stairs, their hands over their streaming faces. Some of the parents went after them, driven by the urge to protect their young even in the face of the terrible. Others ran away from them, driven by the need to survive. The thing whirled, lashing out at its erstwhile supplicants. Screams were silenced, and gore splattered the floor and walls as people were violently rent asunder. Support columns splintered beneath the thing's clumsy hammer blows. Its barbs tore holes in the walls, and gouged pits into the floor. Massive stones that had stood atop one another for aeons ground together before falling to the floor. Some of them smashed into the knots of people, and others crashed against the presence that towered above them. It howled, but there was no telling if the sound was driven by pain, rage, or hunger. Casks of oil smashed onto the floor, rushing over the ground. The flames licked along the oil, racing up the thing's legs. Its bellows rose, adding to the cacophony as it stomped its feet, dragging pulped remains toward its mouth.

  “Dirk, you mad bastard! Get me out of here!” Teller yelled, the limp gag hanging round his neck like a dead serpent.

  Dirk blinked, and turned. Teller wriggled in his bindings, his teeth clenched as he tried to pull himself free without tearing the wound in his side open any further. Dirk slashed the ropes at Teller's ankles, then cut the ones at his wrists. Teller went limp, his head smacking the altar. He took a shuddering breath, and grinned up at Dirk.

  “A few minutes sooner would have been ideal,” Teller said, coughing as he rolled onto his side.

  “When I get you home, you may wish I had left you here,” Dirk replied, grabbing Teller's arm and yanking him to his feet. “Grandmere is far from pleased.”

  “One terror at a time,” Teller said, groaning as Dirk put a shoulder under his unhurt side.

  “Can you make the stairs?” Dirk asked.

  “Damn the stairs,” Teller said, hobbling toward the far end of the altar. “Get me behind this cursed rock pile, and we can be gone before it knows.”

  Dirk half-carried and half-dragged Teller down from the dais, trying to go unnoticed. He backed around the side of the dais at Teller's direction, and leaned him against the rear of it. Teller sucked a breath over his teeth, and frantically ran his hands over the stones.

  “I found it by accident,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the tumult. “Lanissara was going mad the more of the prophecy she solved, and I-”

  “Talk later,” Dirk said. “Act now!”

  Stepping back the way they'd come, Dirk peered around the side of the dais. Afra was running toward the stairs to the upper galleries, half a dozen younglings in tow. There was an older girl at her side, as well as three adults. Dirk recognized her parents and sisters from her description. They were all disheveled, bloody, and several of them limped.

  “Afra!” Dirk shouted, bellowing to be heard in the tumult. He stepped around the corner, waving an arm to draw her eye. At first she didn't see him, but one of the children tugged at her arm, and she turned. Dirk waved them toward his position, and they came. They'd nearly reached Dirk when one of the creature's thick tendrils grasped at them. Dirk didn't think; he leaped from cover, and slashed at the rubbery, tumorous flesh. His dagger opened the creature's skin as if it were parchment, and black ichor sprayed from the wound, sizzling where it struck the stones. The tendril wrenched away, and fresh tremors shook the room. The thing turned, and looked at the source of its pain. A hundred eyes stared at Dirk, and it shrieked.

  “We have to get out of here!” Afra yelled, barely an inch from Dirk's ear. Even as close as she was, her words were muffled.

  “Go,” he shouted back, pushing her behind the altar. She protested, but where Teller had been standing there was now a yawning hole. Teller stuck his head back through the hole shouting for them. The little knot surged forward, vanishing into the secret door. Afra followed them, ducking low behind the stone. Dirk came after, his steps practically on her heels. Afra clambered into the passage just as the thing loomed over the altar. Its maw dropped open, and it slammed its tendrils down to bar the way.

  Dirk swore, ducked and weaved, as the creature grabbed for him. He slashed and spun, his shirt smoking from where the thing's black blood landed. He tried to force his way past, nearly reaching the open doorway. Afra had him by the shirt, and was trying to pull him in, when a thicker tendril, this one covered in grasping mouths and leaking suckers, wrapped itself around Dirk's thigh in a crushing grip. He reversed his grip on his dagger, and stabbed into the thing's dark flesh. It would not be denied, though, and it wrenched Dirk off his feet, lifting him into the air.

  Dirk hacked at the ropy appendage, snarling at its refusal to release him. It was joined by another, and then another, each wrapped around his legs as he was lifted. The creature held Dirk before its face, and stared at him. Its eyes were black, and they burned like hungry, dying stars. Something whispered against the door of Dirk's mind. Something curious, but clumsy, pryin
g at him. Trying to tear away his shell so it might devour the sweet meat inside him. Dirk tasted blood in his mouth, and his vision narrowed until all he saw was the bulging central eye in the cluster of the creature's face. The thing opened its mouth, and that was when Dirk flung his dagger. It flew straight and true, sinking deep into the thing's eye. It popped, spurting like a pustule as the creature screamed. Then Dirk was falling.

  Dirk slammed onto the dais, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him. The impact sent him rolling, and he dangled from the edge, one leg sliding over the side. He balanced there for a moment, deaf in the tumult of the chamber, before hands grabbed him, and pulled him down. He fell again, but this time the impact was lessened. Afra stood to one side of him, Teller to the other. They were shouting, but Dirk couldn't hear them. He stumbled into the open hole, and Teller pulled the door shut behind them. Something battered against the other side, but the door stayed closed.

  “Dirk!” Teller shouted. “Can you hear me?”

  “Barely,” Dirk yelled back. “Go, damn you! I will be right behind.”

  Teller didn't stay to debate the wisdom of that course. He turned, and headed down the tunnel. Dirk made to follow, but his leg trembled under him, and he got no more than three steps before it gave out, and he slumped against the wall.

  “Kelana, help me get him up,” Afra shouted. Her hands dug into Dirk's bicep, and she strained to pull him up. Kelana grabbed his other arm, pulling with a strength lent by sheer terror. Dirk gritted his teeth, and stood on his uninjured leg. The three of them hobbled into the dimness, going as fast as they were able as the floor shook, and cracks spread along the walls and ceiling.

  The tunnel ahead was dark, but there were patches of blue radiance that gave a sense of its size. It narrowed quickly, and tilted downward. The ceiling was low, the walls strong, and heavy columns stood every half dozen paces. The glowing moss marked the path, and in its wan light Dirk could pick out shadowy figures far ahead of him, bent over in shambling runs. Dust shook down from the roof, and a thin stream of blood slid between two cracks on one wall. As if the ziggurat itself was dying from the awful birth it had contained for so long.