Savage

by James Alderdice

  “Sounds like a lie,” said the captain. “But I’m willing to look, considering what the Baron wants. Teget, Milos, go get us a fifteen- foot plank strong enough to walk on.”

  “How are we gonna get it down here? It won’t fit,” one said.

  “Then bring me two seven footers and we’ll lash ‘em together, just get it done you lot. Now!”

  The two guards disappeared and Gathelaus hid his smile. If the spiders came he would only have to escape ten men instead of twelve. Still none too good on the odds though.

  It took well over an hour for the two men to return with wood enough to make a plank bridge. Hammering it together was deafening inside the antechamber. Gathelaus watched patiently, expecting the noise to bring the vicious monsters, but none came.

  They slammed the long plank across the gulf and the captain commanded the one named Milos to cross it.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, we can’t very well have the prisoner go first. We already know he panics and tosses the bridge down the first chance he gets.”

  Milos gingerly crossed. This plank held much better than the earlier one. Another man followed after him, then another, and another. Still no spiders. Gathelaus cursed to himself that the monsters hadn’t attacked yet. He didn’t want to have to cross again, but he could think of no way out. He bounded across. The rest of the company followed him.

  They went down the passage and Gathelaus looked all over, hunting for the Pipe Gathelaus wondered if he had dropped it elsewhere, but other than the abyss he wasn’t sure where else it could have gone. He remembered falling on the plank and slamming against it as the Merovians had lassoed his foot. But he could swear he still felt it in his satchel after they had escaped.

  The air grew fouler and he became especially wary, knowing full well that they were almost to the point of no return. Then, his gaze fell on the Pipe of Mahmackrah. He picked it up and dusted it off. A mass of cobwebs stuck to one side.

  “That’s it?” remarked the captain. “Huh. I thought it would look like something more. Give it here.” He tore it from Gathelaus’s grasp. “If it was up to me, I’d stick you and leave you here to rot, but the Baron, he’s got plans for you, yes he does. Let’s go back.

  Milos spoke. “Captain, something is there.”

  “Huh? Where?”

  “There.” The guardsman pointed at the edge of darkness where even the light refused to go on. “Something is watching us.”

  A light clacking sounded from somewhere beyond, almost like a woodpecker.

  Gleaming, greedy eyes winked into existence like stars piercing the curtain of night. The clacking and chittering of the spiders escalated.

  “What the hell is that?” cursed the captain.

  Gathelaus tried to edge away, back toward the bridge, but the captain grabbed him and held him fast. “What treachery is this?”

  “Spiders.”

  The captain stared at him disbelievingly but as the first pair of legs crept into view he swore yet again. “Devil of the Nine Hells, it’s true. The legends are true!” He turned and scurried back toward the bridge.

  The spiders swarmed forth and, to their credit, the guardsmen stood side by side and fought back rather than running. Shoulder to shoulder like a wall, they beat back the charging horde of monsters and cut and slashed the foul demons into a slime of legs and gory bodies.

  Gathelaus, eager to help, grabbed the sword of the first stricken guardsman, squaring off against the spiders. Scores of the grey bodies piled up, cut and dashed, alongside the cave walls as the guardsmen slowly retreated.

  The captain came rushing back in a frothing panic. “We have to move! Forward! Forward!” His wide eyes reflected back horror and raging terror. He ignored Gathelaus and kept moving on down the passage.

  What could be causing such fear. Were more spiders coming the other way? He ran the short way back to see if they should be fighting on two fronts. The guttering torch they had left in the antechamber still cast a weak light over the room, revealing that the plank bridge was gone. But how?

  Gathelaus saw what he initially thought was the plank rise again. Except it wasn’t the plank. It was the massive, hairy leg of a huge spider. It drew itself up from the pit and centered its dark, eight-eyed gaze upon Gathelaus. It launched forward.

  Its leap might have taken Gathelaus had the tunnel not shrunk down just enough to stop its massive forelegs from catching him as they clapped together. The huge spider squeezed its way in and kept coming.

  He ran back the other way. The guardsmen had slowed their pitched battle with the spiders for it seemed that they had won. They wondered aloud at the captain running ahead into what must have surely been more spiders. A few followed him, but the remaining seven remained when Gathelaus pushed through them and kept running.

  They looked back at the titanic horror scuttling toward them in the grey gloom.

  They ran.

  Only a few of the dog-sized spiders remained in the tunnels here, making it easier for Gathelaus and the other guardsmen to dispatch them as they continued down and down. Every time they looked back, however, the colossal spider still pursued them.

  Gathelaus curse, this path would not take them closer to the, but deeper and deeper into the earth. The terrible dark closed in around them, only three of the men still had functioning lanterns. The pale orange light danced wildly as they ran. The chamber opened into a wide vast dominion where the giant spider would have room to maneuver and catch them. The sound of rushing waters was nearby, but still too far to be seen.

  “Make a shield wall! We stand and fight!” cried the captain.

  But they had no shields. Still the men locked together side by side to face the monstrosity together.

  One of the lights still danced. Gathelaus turned to see the captain fleeing farther into the gloom with one of the last three lanterns. “Craven dog!”

  The giant spider was upon them. Its massive bulk crushed three men in the center. It’s long, spindly legs sent another two flying against the stone walls of the cavern.

  Gathelaus and another man slammed their short swords against its abdomen, their blows bouncing off its thick, chitinous body.

  Webbing shot out and caught the man beside Gathelaus. The human fly screamed just before the silk covered his face and he was dragged to the titanic spider’s crunching mandibles.

  With nothing left to do but run, Gathelaus chased after the dim light of the captain. He stumbled and fell head first into the unforgiving ground but jumped to his feet, moving again in a heartbeat. Behind him, the screams died, and he could see the great bulk of the spider against the last light of the final lantern as it feasted on the Baron’s men.

  The sound of rushing waters grew louder, and he wondered if there was a waterfall. The captain’s light stopped moving.

  The gutless cur turned to face him with his sword drawn. “You,” he said.

  “Coward,” accused Gathelaus. "You abandoned your men.”

  “It was hopeless. I did the only sane thing, but the trail is at an end. We are trapped, and that thing will devour us soon as anything.” He held the lantern out and the pale orange flame caught the water tumbling over the edge at least forty feet down into a white-water morass filled with black boulders.

  The captain looked at him and swung his raised sword.

  Gathelaus dodged aside and countered with his own strike. He caught the captain in the arm and side. His foe dropped to his knees and said weakly, “Make it quick.”

  Gathelaus shook his head. “You wanted me to kill you to save you from the fate of the spider. I think not.”

  “Then we are both damned to fill its belly,” snarled the captain.

  “Always another way,” said Gathelaus. He could hear better than see the monstrosity coming for them. He snatched the Pipe from the captain’s coat, stuffed it into his belt, and then sheathed his short sword and leapt into the dark waters. The captain’s horrifying screams echoed off the stone walls as the spider god
took him and darkness surrounded Gathelaus in its cold embrace.

  The water dashed him against stone. It was cold and blacker than the seven pits of the darkest hell. But, he was still alive and carried along by the torrent as it raced along stones worn smooth by countless eons of current. At last the channel poured him out into a great lake. Dim lights reflected upon the black surface from phosphorescent creatures clinging to the roof above. The water flowed slowly here, and the echo of the turbulent stream filled a massive invisible gallery. With great slurping sound, the undertow grabbed him.

  Sucked into a twisting vortex, it spun him about, and his lungs seized with need for air. Encompassed in the wet nothingness, darkness surrounded him, and he lost all sense of direction.

  He skyrocketed up a channel, riding on a geyser-like blast of force. It spat him out into a hot, brightly lit stream at the base of a cliff. The cliffs just above the city of Mankares.

  A dozen pilgrims and merchants gathered water just downstream from him. They cried in shock that a devil had just risen from the abyss. They ran away toward the city, abandoning their merchandise, horses, and camels.

  Bruised, battered, and gasping, Gathelaus took a long moment to adjust to the light of the sun. A blind man sat beneath a palm beside the oasis.

  “You’re not afraid?” he asked the blind man.

  “Why should I be? I can’t see you, but I know foolish folk often jump at first impressions.”

  Gathelaus laughed. “I should be dead, but I escaped the tunnels beneath the city, spiders and all, and somehow was freed by the very waters themselves.”

  “They watch over you, stranger,” said the blind man.

  “Who?” asked Gathelaus.

  “The gods that play dice with men’s destiny, of course.”

  Gathelaus wondered at that and felt the tightness at his belt. He still had the Pipe. He glanced over at the animals abandoned by the merchants and pilgrims and grabbed a few meager supplies, including a wide brimmed hat. A fine-looking pack horse nickered close by, already laden with sweating skins of water.

  “The gods are good,” said the blind man. “They must have another purpose for you.”

  “Yes, they do,” he said, with a wicked grin, mounting the horse that was left by the fleeing merchants.

  15.

  One Moon Later

  Gathelaus rode into a small village and at the town well, slaked his thirst.

  An old man spoke to a group of children nearby upon a shaded stoop.

  “Old man, what is the closest route to a port city?” Gathelaus asked, breaking the reverie which the old man had held to the gathered children.

  “Besides the way you just came from? Mankares is behind you.” He gestured with a gnarled finger.

  “You’re right, but I can’t go back that way.”

  The old man scrutinized Gathelaus a long moment before answering. “I suppose you could take the old road southwest of here and cut through the El Borak mountains and that would take you to Dar-Al-Hambra, but I would not recommend it. The wells along that way are dry this time of year, it has been especially bad for some time. The longer route southeast to KhoPeshli is better, but still it is a way filled with treachery and danger. The bandits are very bad this year, preying upon even the mightiest of caravans. You would also pass over the Vale of Desolation, a cursed place. You are best to go back wherever you came from, stranger.”

  “That’s not an option,” grumbled Gathelaus.

  “Then may the gods be with you, for it is a harsh thing you seek after.”

  “How many days’ ride is it?”

  The old man looked over his horse. “If you can find enough water along the way, and neither the bandits or ghoul get you, about two weeks. This is a fine horse. Where did you get him?”

  Gathelaus mounted and tipped his hat at the old man before riding into the sunset.

  ***

  Far to the south, Niels walked toward the piratical city of KhoPeshli, also known as the City of the Dreaming Dead. The most difficult thing had been finding water in the desert. He’d almost died the first day until he found a hollow where dew and other moisture coming off the ocean had been collected. The very stones carved to collect it by some ancient craftsman. He was forced to linger there for some days to regain his strength. He lived on cactus and a rabbit that he took with a well thrown stone.

  The next week, he found a trail and it soon carried him to a road where a goat herd directed him on the correct route to KhoPeshli—the opposite of where he had been going.

  He was almost ready to turn around again, when a small troupe of gypsies took pity on him and gave him a ride in the back of their wagon to the great city where they would be performing.

  Niels had never been so grateful to get off his feet.

  He stayed with them for several days, hunting for news of Gathelaus, but none was forthcoming. That, and the city was becoming a dangerous place. There was infighting between the pirates for leadership and it seemed that soon enough, full-grown battle would erupt. Taking leave of his new friends, he bid them farewell as he left the city to head north and try to find Gathelaus.

  ***

  Being undead for countless centuries makes one patient if not mad. Lucifugis remembered much of the dark arts that could aid him even while trapped in this dimly lit sarcophagus. He remembered his spells of working and transformation and while he had been unwilling for centuries to make the attempt at forgoing his desiccated body, now he had no choice but to try, or remain inside until he became dust.

  Malefic luck was on his side; a blood moon eclipse was coming in just a few more days. With the powers of the void and veil being rent, he would attempt his most diabolical spell ever and work the transfiguration spell for himself. But it would not do to be made into the form of just anyone or anything, he must have abilities and powers, strength and bone crushing muscle.

  Before he would work the dark power of transfiguration, he must summon a being that he could overcome both the mind and soul thereof. This was a slippery slope. A being of immense power for him to call a new body and yet a being that he could overcome by will alone.

  True, he could overcome any poor wandering goat herd in the desert, but he didn’t want to be just a weak, malnourished goat herd. He wanted brute strength to overcome Gathelaus, and then extend his power of influence beyond his heretofore, obsessive compulsion.

  He realized years had gone by, nay centuries, while he made attempts to gain the Pipe. Time had passed him by. At first, he had settled for being older, then weaker, then finally a living corpse. Time was immaterial and he had let himself be fooled into relegating no use of a mortal body, he was, after all, immortal what needs did he have for the ways of the flesh? But now . . .

  Now he wanted a body of brute strength and power, a body to make others quake. His apprentice had done that very thing, and it had served him well for a time, but for the power of the Pipe, now he too must have unrivaled physical strength. Who could he manipulate? Who could he overcome and subjugate his will over for the sake of a new body? He pondered, and then at last felt the crackling of power in a far-off land of fire. A great power had awoken far to the south upon a flaming mountain. He directed his influence there and called out a summoning to the beings that dwelt there, for one mighty and strong to come to him.

  And the call was answered.

  16.

  Midnight Caravan

  The gossamer-shrouded caravan rolled lightly over unhallowed sands. Silk-clad maidens and armored horsemen alike cast furtive glances down at the shifting sands, half expecting withered and rotted hands to rise—for beneath the surface lie the supposed remnants of a lost and cursed civilization.

  It was not uncommon for some ancient cup or brooch to be found along the trail. Anywhere else such a trinket would be but a trifle to recover, the work of a moment to step down and be rescued from the ever-present heat and wind; but here in the Vale of Desolation, near any item would be left alone, as it was said by the
wilderness nomads to bring some ill luck upon the traveler that gambled to keep it.

  Such was the superstitious bearing of this caravan, too. An alchemist leapt from his seat on the wagon to pick up a brass goblet half-buried in the sands. A scolding from his wife coaxed him to softly toss the relic away.

  “No point in waking the dead,” she chided, “for the damned know what is theirs and what is disturbed.”

  “Fine, I’ll toss it back, but not because you said so, but because I don’t care about it,” he challenged.

  The sun bearing down with the ferociousness of a blast furnace granted some courage to the superstitious, while black-winged vultures circled overhead, patient as the decayed mummies rumored to be interred below. Mile after mile of rolling dunes broke and gave way to outcroppings of fractured, red stone that gradually formed into spidery canyons and ravines. And for those sheltered, stony mountains the caravan made all due progress. Whips struck the hind ends of oxen in anticipation to be out and away of the Vale. Flanking the treasure and spice wagons were row upon row of mounted Yanissary bodyguards, their long, curled mustaches and wide, flaring turbans bouncing in time to their camels’ steps. Next came the perfumed seraglio carriages with women’s laughter hovering overhead, then the overloaded acting company’s coach, the alchemist, apothecary and water/food supply wagons; lastly, the exotic animals in a half-dozen stinking carts lined with bars of bronze, painted in stripes of flat black and lustrous gold. Azure banners fluttered in the chaotic breeze, and the more fearful blamed the weather on the Djinn and bane of the desert.

  So wary were these merchant princes that, when a solitary rider crested a dune, they formed a defensive circle, expecting an attack.

  The stranger galloped his roan horse to within a hundred yards, then slowed to a canter with arms upraised in the universal sign of peace. “Hold, I bear a message,” Gathelaus shouted.

  A nervous Yanissary loosed a long-flanged arrow.