Caylen sighed wearily. “Gather wood from the forest. We shall build a pyre for our battle-brothers, and light a funeral fire the likes of which even the gods will envy!”
Like an amaranthine ghost, the woman suddenly appeared at Caylen’s side, speaking quickly in an incognizable tongue and gesturing to the northern edge of the clearing.
“I cannot fathom your words,” barked Caylen with a scowl. “Your prattling means naught to me, and I haven’t the time to pay heed!”
Frowning, the woman swiftly removed the viridescent amulet from about her neck and made as if to press the jewel to Caylen’s forehead. Instantly, the clansman’s hand lashed out to grasp her wrist and hold it fast.
“Pray, let her do it,” said Guthlac. “It may be her custom, and I am curious as to her intent.”
Grudgingly, Caylen released his hold and allowed the woman to place the strange talisman against his brow. To his surprise, he felt a fleeting sensation of warmth from the green gem, and as he stared into the girl’s alluring, almond-shaped eyes, he mused that they sparkled like twin amethysts. After several moments, she drew back the amulet and gazed at him expectantly.
“Delightful,” muttered Caylen. “Your way of conveying thanks, I suppose. Well, there is no need. Now stand aside, for we have a grim task before us.”
A wry smile then curled the woman’s fulsome lips. “You’re an ill-tempered one, outlander. But at least now we may converse.”
Caylen’s eyes widened in astonishment. “That jewel! Your words are no longer gibberish! What sorcery is this?”
The woman sighed exasperatedly and proceeded to place the amulet against Guthlac’s furrowed brow.
“The crystal is enchanted,” exclaimed Caylen. “By some spell, it makes her language clear to us!”
“Remarkable,” grumbled Guthlac, donning his battered helmet once more. “Trolls, lizard-men and magic gems. Give me an honest sea-fight against an Atlantean trireme over this mad sigaldry any day!”
“Now hearken, strangers!” the woman said, casting a wary glance at the treeline. “Give your fallen friends to the fire if you must, but we must make haste to the settlement of my people. The emissaries of the Serpent King haunt this jungle, and they will surely see the smoke from your pyre.”
“Who are you, wench?” snapped Caylen. “And is there a passage through these black mountains?”
“My name is Nalani,” the woman said, her voice mellifluous yet edged with a tremulous note of fear. “Your questions will be answered when we are safely behind the walls of my tribe’s stockade. Now cease your maundering and set about your grim task, for the Mountain of the Fire God awaits!”
Chapter IV
The Shaman’s Prophecy
Caylen and Guthlac grimly surveyed the village to which Nalani had led them. The sizable settlement was encircled by a palisade of lofty timbers evidently hewn from the trunks and boughs of slender jungle trees. Each of the sturdy pales had been sharpened to a cruel point and a crudely reinforced gate flanked by several broader stakes was situated at the defensive wall’s western edge. The dwellings within the primitive fortification were circular constructions fashioned from timber poles and interlaced with a latticework of smaller branches, clad with an exterior coating of hardened mud. The rooves of the huts were crowned by densely packed branches and further adorned with layers of grass and vines. At the settlement’s southern perimeter was a rudimentary corral within which several long-horned hircine animals grazed, while a narrow, languidly flowing stream wound its way through the undergrowth where the village’s abatis-ringed boundary met the dense verdure of the jungle.
“A war-hird could overrun this place in minutes,” growled Caylen as he glanced about the encampment.
“And I wouldn’t sleep well with that monster looming at my gate,” muttered Guthlac, pointing to the colossal, black volcano which towered not six miles to the south of the village.
Nalani turned to address the mariners. “The God of the Fire Mountain has not awoken in many generations. His continued slumber is ensured by our oblations and offerings.”
“No doubt,” grumbled Caylen, gazing at the brooding peak and the dense clouds of cinereous smoke which billowed from its rutilant crown.
As Nalani ushered the men briskly through the settlement, its inhabitants stared silently at the strangers with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain. The tribe’s cold-eyed warriors bearing their slender spears and curved clubs glared with ill-concealed hostility while the relatively few children merely gaped in rapt fascination. Caylen noted that the villagers were clad in a manner largely akin to the raven-haired woman; crude garments fashioned of animal hides and woven plant fibres with assorted adornments of ivory and stone.
“The dwelling of the shaman Akamai is yonder,” said Nalani, motioning to a ramshackle hut which squatted within the shadow of a colossal, gnarled tree. The walls and door of the rough-hewn construction were adorned with an array of sun-bleached animal skulls and a tendril of grey smoke rose languidly from a wide aperture in its roof. “He will provide the answers which you seek. Follow.”
Caylen and Guthlac duly accompanied Nalani into the shaman’s abode. The interior walls of the hut were bedecked with numerous animal pelts and upon the earthen floor a small cookfire burned within a ring of broad, blackened stones. Atop the fire sat a stoneware pot from which writhed plumes of redolent vapour. Crouched before the fire was the shaman Akamai, his gaunt frame adorned with garments of tattered goatskin. The aged man’s rugose face was etched with intricate tattoos and around his neck was a leather thong from which hung an array of serpents’ teeth. The shaman’s wispy hair was dun-white and his rheumy eyes were fixed firmly on the pungent concoction which bubbled within the stone vessel. Nalani briskly knelt beside the ancient tribesman and for many moments she whispered softly into his ear. Finally, she rose and motioned for the mariners to sit before the fire. Caylen and Guthlac obliged, staring expectantly at the wizened figure as Nalani seated herself beside them and inclined her head meditatively.
“Outlanders,” rasped Akamai, his voice like the susurration of dry leaves. “For rescuing our daughter Nalani from the acolytes of the Great Snake, you have our gratitude. The shard of the Star-Stone has allowed us to commune and the Fire God now hearkens to your words. Far have you travelled, and many questions burn within you. Ask them now, and we shall grant you the boon of enlightenment.”
“Very well, old man. I am Caylen, master of the White Wolf. Who is this damned Serpent King? Does he indeed hold sway over this forsaken atoll?”
Akamai nodded grimly. “He is ancient and wicked. One of the last of his kind. How he came to the Island of the Fire God is knowledge long since lost to my people, but he has ruled here from his Black Pyramid for centuries beyond reckoning. We pay him tribute each blood moon; offerings of living flesh. He takes our chosen sons and daughters and in return we are spared the wrath of his serpent warriors.”
“A tyrant, and an inhuman one at that,” muttered Guthlac. “I might have guessed.”
“You offer him your children?” seethed Caylen. “What does he do with these sacrifices, pray tell?”
“Some he devours, others he enslaves. The pitiless passage of time has wrought its toll upon his own kind and precious few of his hoary serpent-folk remain alive. So, he corrupts the tribes of this island and bends them to his vile will, compelling the people of the jungle to do his bidding by means of foul sorcery and the cruel lash of his acolyte’s whips.”
“The tribesman we slew in the clearing,” pondered Caylen. “He was one of these slaves?”
Nalani nodded solemnly. “Yes. A hunter from the Sons of the Red River. The Serpent King’s virulence has befouled many of the Old Tribes. The People of the Crystal Caverns, the Children of the Sky Tree, even many of our own folk of the Black Mountain now bend the knee in obeisance to him, their minds twisted by his accursed venom-rituals.”
“Can you not rise up against this fiend?” spat Caylen. “Have you not sufficient
warriors to resist his villainy?”
Akamai bowed his head forlornly. “Ten years past, our great chieftain Ikaika led a rebellion against the ophidian liege. It did not go well. Our beloved king was sacrificed upon the Altar of the Snake God and as punishment for his revolt, the tribute demanded of our tribe was increased twofold. Such was the price of insurrection.”
“Since that black day, we have been without a king,” said Nalani dolefully. “And woe has cloaked this tribe like a shadow.”
“Yes, how very tragic,” snapped Guthlac irately. “But heed me now. We entered this realm through the caverns which lie to the south of your encampment. That route is now closed to us. Is there another path through the mountains?”
Akamai sighed wearily. “The black peaks are impassable to men. None may scale those baneful heights. The old gates are forever shut and there is no other way to the sea.”
“Damn and blast!” hissed Guthlac. “We are trapped here after all!”
“Perhaps,” rasped Akamai. “And yet, it is said that the Serpent King guards a portal within his infernal shrine, a mystic gateway to the lands beyond the jungle. But it shall scarce avail thee, for no man enters the Black Pyramid and lives.”
Caylen’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed? I’m beginning to think a visit to this snake king’s temple may well be in order.”
“Madness!” exclaimed Nalani. “None may deign to seek an audience with that malign devil, and neither may one enter the serpent’s nest unbidden!”
Akamai suddenly fixed Caylen with a feverous glare. “No ordinary man could hope to brave that perilous path, outlander. But in you, we sense great power. A mighty soul-fire burns within your war-scored breast and potent magicks entwine your heart! Our ancient prophecies speak of one whose voyages across the ice-bound sea shall bring him to our long-hidden shores… one who is destined to dash the serpents of the blackened earth beneath his feet. Mayhap you are the one whose coming was foretold.”
“I suspect not,” growled Caylen. “At any rate, I’ve never paid much heed to prophecies, for I hear too many of them. But there is one more thing I would ask. An old mariner’s legend tells of a mist-shrouded isle upon which stands a great city hewn of precious jewels. Does such a place exist here? Speak the truth, old man!”
For a long moment, Akamai was silent. Then, he interlaced his bony fingers and nodded. “It is said that the Serpent King guards a great hoard of crystals; the remnants of a trove of sparkling gems which once encrusted the ancient temples of our distant ancestors. Those glimmering spires have been lost for countless aeons, since before the first cultists of the Fire God incurred the black mountain’s searing wrath!”
Guthlac directed a quizzical glance at Caylen. “Perhaps there is some truth in the good captain’s tall tale after all!”
“You cannot face the Serpent King!” snapped Nalani, her violet eyes suddenly agleam with fear. “Many before you have tried, and now their bones adorn the walls of his verminous fortress!”
“It is decided,” enounced Caylen, heedless of the tribeswoman’s concern. “We must find a way into this Black Pyramid!”
Akamai scowled. “You have spilled the blood of the devil’s kin. That is something he will most assuredly not forgive. But if you are steadfast in your resolve to breach his temple, you will require our aid. The weapons of the foe are envenomed with the death-kiss of the snake lord. Ruin awaits all those who are touched by that malign blight. But, we can bestow upon thee a draught which is proof against his poison.”
“An elixir to counter the serpent’s venom?” exclaimed Caylen. “By all means, shaman! I have seen the doom wrought by that filth, and it is something I would most certainly not wish to suffer!”
Swiftly, Akamai took up from the earthen floor a small ovoid vessel carved of stained bone which he then proceeded to dip into the noisome substance bubbling atop the fire. Once the cup was full, he handed it reverentially to Guthlac. “Drink, and your blood will be fortified against the venom. But be warned, the infusion brings both pain and visions akin to the opiate embrace of the lotus!”
Guthlac grimaced in disgust as he raised the vessel to his lips. “I’ve supped fermented yak’s milk in the rat-infested taverns of Bazalanin, old man! I’ll wager this brew shall prove no worse!” Then, he boldly swallowed a measure of the mephitic potion before handing the bone cup to Caylen.
“Well?” grumbled Caylen, staring uneasily at the green liquid within the vessel. “Is it as vile as its stench suggests?”
“I was wrong, Wolfclan,” wheezed Guthlac, his face suddenly ashen. “It’s by far the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted!” And with that, the burly mariner promptly keeled over and lapsed into an insensate slumber.
Steeling himself, Caylen swiftly drank what remained of the malodorous draught. The viscid liquid struck the back of his throat like fire and instantly a wave of revulsion surged through his body. A shimmering panoply of scintillant colours then abruptly manifested before his eyes as a great sense of obtunded weariness engulfed him…
Alone and unarmed, Caylen stood before a monolithic wall of black stone etched with cryptic, viridescent glyphs. The arcane sigils seemed to pulse with lucent energy and although the carvings represented a language wholly unknown to him, he nevertheless found that he could discern their meaning with absolute clarity. Compelled by an illimitable lucidity, his unerring gaze scrupulously swept the colossal edifice and the eldritch, cuneiform inscriptions slowly revealed their time-lost secrets…
“And lo, the ancient Serpent Kings who strode the cracked and cratered face of Pangaea like mighty ectothermic colossi did duly wage ceaseless war with the star-born First Ones, laying siege to the glorious Antarctic Megalopolis and the abyssal bastions of the Inner World during those immemorial epochs which are now lost beyond temporal reckoning and the meagre ken of Man. Know that those glorious Ophidian Lords did build upon the ravaged surface of the hoary earth their greatest aeon-cloaked and cyclopean shrines; the Nine Temples of the Serpent Kings, hewn from shimmering meteoric rock and the adamantine bones of the saurian titans who roamed the calescent globe before the First Cataclysm reshaped the very countenance of Creation. Know also that the star-forged Viridian Stones fell from the heavens countless aeons past, scarring the surface of the Tellurian Sphere as they plummeted to the earth wreathed in baleful flame. Only the most ancient mages of the Elder Races were privy to their true origin, and that knowledge has long since been lost to all but the most percipient sages of the world, for the stones were imbued with great sorcerous power which could be harnessed to grant illimitable wisdom or wreak immeasurable carnage! The crumbling, blood-etched pages of hoary grimoires such as The Tome of Shadows and The Chthonic Chronicles are replete with nefarious spells and forbidden rites to shackle the sidereal mana of the stones and twist their empyreal energies to do the black bidding of witch and wizard alike. And thus did the servitors and cultists of the Chaosphere duly covet the mystic potency of the crystal; those vile acolytes of the Z’xulth who were empowered by the fanatical belief that it was sent to Earth from the abyssal reaches of the Utter Dark as a malign gift to assist their Black Order in preparing the world for the triumphant return of their vile gods, the infernal abominations who seethe eternally in the diabolical depths of their abhorrent ultra-stellar wombs! Cleanse and purify were thus the sacred watchwords of the Ophidian Hegemony, for it was well known that the snake-lords would not suffer a Z’xulth cultist to live, such was one of their most deeply revered tenets! And so, long did the Serpent Kings endure, fortified against the pitiless Ice Ages and the myriad climactic upheavals which grievously scarred the Tellurian Sphere, watching from their subterranean vaults and their mountains of power as the children of Man crawled to their prophesied ascendancy. And deep within their lava-kissed lairs the Serpent Kings plotted and schemed with ophidian malice and that supreme cold-blooded patience natural to their elder race, awaiting the day when they would surge forth from their basaltic fortresses like a vengeful and venomous wa
ve of fanged fury and righteous rage to crush the cities of the ape-spawn beneath their scaled and star-shod feet, making the Earth theirs once again!”
Emerging abruptly from his trance, Caylen wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his brow and emitted a great, juddering sigh.
“What was revealed to thee, outlander?” whispered Akamai, his eyes gleaming fervidly.
“Lore all but forgotten by our people, it would seem,” growled Caylen. “Long ago, in the catacombs beneath an ancient fortress, a black altar spoke cryptically to me concerning the race of snake-lords. The waking dream I just experienced has finally shed some light upon that vexing mystery. The Serpent Kings are the ancestral enemies of men. For eons they have drawn their diabolical plans against us. This is a dark truth indeed.”
“Enlightenment can be a heavy burden,” said Akamai. “And now, the veil has been lifted from before your eyes.”
“Indeed,” muttered Caylen. “I still set no store by your prophecy, but mayhap the gods did compel me to this isle after all… to end the tyranny of this Serpent King and free your people from his vile rule!”
Nalani cast an anxious glance at Akamai, but the shaman’s stare remained fixated upon Caylen.
Suddenly, Guthlac awoke with a start and sat bolt upright, his gaze sweeping the hut in trepidation.
“Welcome back,” gnarred Caylen with a wry grin.
“I dreamt of snakes!” gasped Guthlac, his breathing ragged. “And a sweet dream it was not!”
“And so, it is done,” rasped Akamai. “The venom of the serpent-folk can no longer harm thee. Now, you must choose your path.”
Caylen clambered briskly to his feet. “I shall seek out this villainous Serpent King,” he rumbled adamantly. “Guthlac! What say you?”
Rising sullenly, Guthlac nodded. “Aye, why not? It’s a damned foolish plan that will doubtless result in our deaths, but it seems our best hope for getting off this bloody isle!”
“Come the dawn, our hunters shall show you the route to the Black Pyramid,” said Akamai. “The secret paths through the jungle are known only to our finest trackers. Not even the snake-men traverse the old, hidden trails.”
The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor Page 16
